Bat Appétit
by ecto1B
Summary: Act 2: Gotham became a black hole as the months staggered past. It was a dark speck, invisible to the outside world, lonesome on its frosty, water-locked pedestal. Just as a black hole gorged itself on light, Gotham fell to a pair of jagged jaws. And just as John feared, escape was out of the question. Monty would die there with him. Bruce/OC/John. Rated M for smut/language
1. Act 1: Julia

******Bat Appétit**  
A _Batman Begins/Dark Knight/Dark Knight Rises_ Fanfic by SouthernImagineer/ecto1B  
Chapter One - dedicated to Hope, the true inspiration behind my stories and the best friend and sister a girl could ever ask for.

* * *

**Act 1.**

"… nothing is too much trouble if it turns out the way it should." – Julia Child

"The Waynes are here."

Eyes wide, Nancy De Luca gripped her husband's hand.

"Thomas and Martha? They haven't eaten here in years." Hastily, her gaze dove over her husband's shoulder, eager to spot the wealthy couple seated in the dining hall. "Are you certain it's them, and not another pair named Wayne? Look-alikes, perhaps?"

Giorgio spoke quietly enough so that his voice drowned in the sounds of the kitchen. He dipped his head. "It's them, Nan. I'm positive." Briefly, he caught himself smiling. "They brought their son. They're seeing a show tonight, and they stopped by for a light dinner beforehand. I just spoke with them." He tossed his head. "I was going to send Curtis over to wait on them, but I thought I'd run it by you first. Maybe you'd like to—"

The older woman held up a hand, smiling. "Have Curtis take their order. I'll stop by and visit while they're waiting for their meal. I don't want to interrupt them." She looked again at the family, admiring their bright faces from afar, and if only for a second, a sting of sorrow seemed to tinge her irises. It was fleeting; Giorgio wondered if he'd imagined it, for it came and went with such haste. He had no choice to ignore it.

Silently, Giorgio craned his neck and kissed the darkening laugh lines beside his wife's tired eyes. The despondent emotion was long gone by now. "That sounds just fine, darling. I just thought you'd like to know they were here. Do as you'd like." He paused, hesitant. "How long has it been…?"

"Since I've spoke with Martha?" Her voice cracked beneath its obvious weight. "It's been… ages. Her son was only a year old when I last saw her."

"He's ten now, I believe. It's been that long?"

Nancy nodded sadly. "I've done a poor job in keeping in touch with her. She's a busy lady, though. Her husband's philanthropy keeps her on her toes, what with scheduling banquets and charity events. I wouldn't expect her to pay the restaurant any regular visits."

Tightening his grip on his wife's hand, Giorgio kissed her cheek. "Well, now's your chance to catch up." He motioned with his head. "Go. I'll hold down the fort here in the kitchen."

Conveniently, Curtis, the aforementioned waiter, scurried into the kitchen just then, and Nancy caught him in a friendly hold. Her chuckle was light, ringing like a set of wind chimes hanging in the breeze, and the younger gentleman echoed it.

"Need something, Mrs. De Luca?"

"Yes, please. Have you already paid the Wayne family a visit?"

His grin glowed. "I have, ma'am. I'm just coming back from delivering them their drinks and taking their order."

"Good." Nancy patted his back. "Get their order in. I'm going over to their table to speak with them for a moment."

At this, Curtis tilted his head, his curiosity peaked. "I didn't know you knew the Waynes, ma'am."

Giorgio watched his wife sigh and bite her lip. She put a hand on the kitchen doorway, running her fingers across the wood there and contemplating its appearance. For a moment, just as it had before, the same melancholy gleam flashed across her face, dissolving when she looked to Giorgio.

"I did. Once."

* * *

"Nancy!" Martha Wayne stood from her chair and stepped away from the table, eager to pull the older woman into an affectionate hug. "It's been so long!"

Bruce watched the newcomer return the hug. He'd never met her before, let alone seen her—or had he? His parents surely knew her. He would ask his father later; Thomas Wayne's attention was already directed elsewhere as he reached to shake the woman's hand.

"It's been too long, Martha. How have you been? And Thomas, it's wonderful to see you!" Nancy directed a cordial smile at both of them, and then to Bruce. "You must be Bruce." She shook her head in disbelief. "My, you've grown. The last time I saw you, you were barely a year old."

From the corner of his eye, Bruce saw his mother mouth a few words of instruction, but Bruce already knew what to say. He'd been taught well. "Thank you, ma'am." He glanced around, sniffing the pizza-scented air and noting an Italian singer's crooning behind the customer chatter. "You have a very nice restaurant."

That was enough to win her over. Her face flushed a bit. "Why thank you!"

Martha and Thomas quickly reentered the conversation, which turned to topics that bored Bruce. The adults were 'catching up,' and he was obviously not included in the discussion. Instead, Bruce fiddled with his napkin, folding it numerous ways and pretending that he was competing to be the best napkin-folder in Gotham. Alfred had shown him a few tricks here and there, and what use was the knowledge if Bruce never experimented?

He didn't refrain from eavesdropping, however. Sometimes adults said the strangest things, and he was keen on hearing a few quirky phrases from his parents.

"How's your son doing?"

"Philip is well, thanks. Still living in Kentucky with Lillian. They've been busy taking care of my granddaughter. Apparently she's quite the handful."

"How old is she? Bruce's age?"

"Almost. Monty is just turning seven this year."

"Monty. What an interesting name. How often do they come to visit?"

"Not often. Lillian _loathes_ Gotham. She hates staying here."

"I remember you saying something about that. Pity. She's probably used to the wide-open spaces of the Midwest. What state is she from, originally?"

"Nebraska."

"Poor girl's not used to the big city."

"That's what Philip gives as an excuse whenever we invite them up."

Bored, Bruce tuned out until there came a mention of his name.

"You're taking Bruce to see a show?"

"_Mefistofele_, yes. We'd originally planned on seeing _The Mark of Zorro_, but I thought an opera would be better for Bruce."

"A little culture never hurt anyone."

"I agree. I'm certain he'll enjoy it."

Seventeen folding styles later, Bruce was immersed in his work. He barely heard his mother speaking to him. "Bruce, stop playing with your napkin," Martha scolded lightly, and Bruce froze. Her voice had come from out of nowhere. "Our food is here."

_Pasta. Yum._ Bruce licked his lips and set his unfolded napkin on his lap.

"It's been wonderful seeing you again, Nancy," Martha went on, this time speaking again to the restaurant owner. She shook the woman's hand. "You and Giorgio should definitely stop by the manor sometime and have dinner with us. After all, you've graced us with a feast." Everyone's eyes darted to the waiter who'd joined them, depositing plates of mouthwatering Italian food to the three patrons. "It looks absolutely delicious, of course. I wouldn't expect anything else from _De Luca's_."

This time, the grin on Nancy's face was light. Bruce swore he saw a hint of something sad ridden in the way she looked at Martha. "I'm sure you'll enjoy the meal. And thank you for the invitation. We might have to take you up on that." Stepping back from the table, Nancy nodded at Bruce. "Enjoy your pasta!"

By that time, Bruce had already stabbed a few noodles onto his fork. He raised it heroically. "Yes ma'am!"

With another moderate smile and a genuflection, the older woman vanished behind the kitchen doors, leaving the Wayne family to partake in their meal.

"She hasn't changed a bit," Martha remarked. "Still the sweet motherly figure I remember."

"I'm glad to hear she and Giorgio are doing well," Thomas added, sipping his soup and pausing as he did so. "Wow. This… is fantastic. Remind me why we don't eat here more often?"

Martha laughed. "We really should come back soon. It's a shame I haven't seen Nancy in so long. I feel bad. All of the charity balls have done a number on my free time." Suddenly, she frowned, letting her voice grow softer. "You don't think she's upset with me, do you?"

Mid-bite, Bruce slowed his movements just enough to catch his father's response.

"No, I don't think so. Why would anyone be upset with you, dear?" Thomas reached across the table and squeezed his wife's hand. "You're doing the best that you can. Nancy's a smart woman; she understands."

Bruce loved how well his parents connected, how effortlessly they sought each other's opinions and valued them just the same. He listened further.

"You don't think she's busy, as well? She has an entire restaurant to run. Don't worry, Martha." Thomas gave her hand another firm squeeze, offering her a smile. "You did nothing wrong." He released her hand and picked up his spoon. "Now, let's hurry and finish our dinner." He glanced at Bruce, giving him a knowing look. "We don't want to be late for the show."

Swallowing thickly and returning to his plate, Bruce did as he was told.

* * *

It was death he smelled as he gripped Bruce's shoulder; death, wrapped in an impious red alcohol; pain, drawn out like a surgical stitch from a wound; intolerable grief, dribbled and dropped into the lifeless, strewn bodies of Thomas and Martha Wayne. The foul scent was strong, stronger than that of honey or apple pie, stronger than any good smell he'd ever known. A wicked odor, it dried his mouth and shut his eyes, attempting to avoid memorizing how vile it felt.

Alfred never visited Park Row that night. He didn't have to; Bruce reeked of the smell when he approached him, when he pulled the older gentleman into a tight hug and buried his face in his shirt.

"It's my f-fault, Alfred," Bruce wept. "All m-my fault."

Alfred knew at once that the boy was wrong. Despite the smell, the butler hugged the child back just as tightly. "It wasn't your fault, Master Bruce. I promise. It wasn't your fault."

Bruce only cried harder.

Placing a hand atop the boy's dark hair, Alfred attempted to speak again. "It wasn't your fault, Master Bruce."

The forced mantra stuck like glue between his teeth.

"It wasn't your fault."

* * *

**Edit (7/27/12):** Since when was Bruce ten years old at the beginning of Batman Begins? Did I miss something? Anyway. I fixed it, AND Monty's age. And I made it so Alfred calls him "Master Bruce" instead of "Master Wayne." Blah. That age thing ruins my whole set up of time spans... I could have SWORN he was eight! Damn you, Chris Nolan, for going non-canon with the origin story! Oh well.

**Edit (7/28/12):** GOD DANG IT. I forgot that Alfred says "Master Wayne" twice. Fixed them both to "Master Bruce." GOD DANG IT.

**Edit (7/29/12):** I really need to stop trusting Wikipedia. So, in the movies, yes, Bruce is eight years old. Damn. BUT, in my story, it works that he's ten... so he will be ten. End of story.


	2. Ralph

**Bat Appétit**  
A _Batman Begins/Dark Knight/Dark Knight Rises_ Fanfic by SouthernImagineer/ecto1B  
Chapter Two - dedicated to Sergio Grom, the Italian tour guide that lead my choir group around Rome, and the inspiration behind my character, Giorgio De Luca.

* * *

"A hero is no braver than an ordinary man, but he is braver five minutes longer." – Ralph Waldo Emerson

Giorgio, who had been sipping at a glass of orange juice, found himself hacking and wheezing, coughing up the liquid as he read the newspaper headline. Hastily, he placed the cup on the table along with the paper, and rushed through the apartment to find his wife, still pounding his fist against his chest in an effort to clear his system of the shock. Nancy needed to know. She needed to know what the black and white letters boasted, and Giorgio needed to be there to hold her when she cried.

She never cried. The woman was strong and tolerant. She could take anything that was thrown at her.

But not this.

She would not be able to handle this.

"Nancy?" Was there hoarseness to his voice? He didn't care; he tried again, this time louder. "Nancy, where are you?"

She responded almost immediately, calling from the master bedroom. "I'm here, dear. What is it? Is something wrong?" When he saw her head poking out the doorway, the man felt his heart give in his chest, falling deep into his ribcage. Her aging face, clear of any makeup, sleep still tugging at her eyes, was one he loved with all his heart, and one he feared destroying.

He absolutely _dreaded_ telling her.

She would cry.

Perhaps he would join her.

"You haven't read the paper this morning, have you?" He stopped just in front of her, panting, and noticed her bathrobe and slippers. _She was awake when I went to the kitchen. She must be heading to the shower… _"You haven't seen the news yet, have you? No one called you last night? No one's told you?"

"No, I only woke up a few minutes ago…" Now her eyes steadily grew wide with fear as she registered his panicked words. "What is it? What happened?"

Doing his best to remain coherent, Giorgio leaned forward and gripped his wife's shoulders.

"It's Thomas and Martha."

Nancy cupped a hand atop her mouth.

Giorgio shut his eyes.

"They're dead."

* * *

**Note: This scene is lifted directly from _Batman Begins_.**

Slowly, Alfred treaded through the doorway of the bedroom. His feet were light against the floor, almost as soft as his words were when he finally spoke. "I thought I might prepare a little supper," he offered.

The boy he was addressing, ten-year-old Bruce Wayne, stood like a sentinel at the window in his black suit; his eyes, locked to an unmarked place outside, remained vigilant and unmoving, unblinking for moments on end. No response was given to the butler or even an acknowledgement of the provided meal, and Alfred, understanding the boy's reticence, knew there was no use forcing anything upon the young master. Glancing downward, he began to turn around.

"Very well," he murmured, swallowing.

Just as he stepped beyond the door, there came a feeble noise, one cloaked in the lamenting remains of a sob.

"Alfred."

It was Bruce, his cheeks stained crimson and his lips plump from crying.

Alfred was almost startled to hear the boy speak. He pivoted back around and reentered the room. "Yes, Master Bruce?"

Instantly, the fortified walls the child had worked so hard to build came crashing downward. Unable to hide his sorrow any longer, Bruce began approaching the man, bubbling words that resembled his wounded mantras the night before.

"It was my fault, Alfred—"

"Oh, no, no, no—" Alfred quickly tried to rebuttal the boy's self-accusations.

"—I made them leave the theater. If I hadn't gotten scared—"

"It was nothing that you did," Alfred said gently, now close enough to Bruce to peer downward into his sad eyes. He reached to the boy's chin with a finger, lifting the quivering face so he, too, could see eye-to-eye with him. The gravity of his words, he knew, would help Bruce cope. "It was him, and him alone. Do you understand?"

Watching Bruce's neck bob into a gulp, Alfred removed his hand and stepped back, awaiting a response. He would wait forever if he had to, only to see the ten-year-old boy he cared for so much finally accept his own innocence.

Bruce worried his lip, shut his eyes to hide the tears, and swiftly fell into Alfred's arms, curling tightly to the older man's torso.

"I miss them, Alfred," he wept. "I miss them _so much_."

Alfred, finding his gaze locking elsewhere, did his best to fight his own tears.

"So do I, Master Bruce."

Faintly, Alfred winced.

"So do I."

* * *

The day after the funeral, things were eerily quiet in the De Luca household. The image of ten-year-old Bruce Wayne standing besides the coffins of his parents was one to be ingrained in Giorgio's mind as long as he lived. The boy had withdrawn from human contact, only allowing a gentle pat on the head from his butler or a hug from Sgt. Gordon, a mustached police officer that had apparently been very kind to Bruce at the GCPD. This haunting visual snapshot drove Giorgio to do something he hadn't done in a long time.

"Philip?"

Never before had his son's voice rang so brilliantly in his ear.

"_Hi, Dad. Long time no talk!_"

Giorgio clutched the receiver. He took a seat in the chair beside the end table, making sure to keep the phone cord from tangling. "It _has_ been a long time, and I'm sorry, son. I'm sorry it's been a while."

"_Dad, I understand. The restaurant keeps you busy. Everything going well there? Business as decent as usual?_"

One of Nancy's larger sobs echoed through the apartment.

"Business is fine." Gritting his teeth, Giorgio winced a bit. "It's your mother I worry about."

"_Mom? What's wrong with her?_"

"Did it not show up on the news there in Kentucky? Thomas and Martha Wayne were murdered."

There was a pause on Philip's end.

"_Th-The Waynes? You're kidding, Dad… not the Waynes…_"

Giorgio sighed. "I wish I was kidding."

"_I'm sorry, Dad. I remember the Waynes. Good people who knew how to change lives with their wealth. They deserved every penny they had. Mom was friends with Mrs. Wayne… that's so sad. They had a son, right? What's happening to him?_"

"The family butler became his guardian, I believe."

"_I hope that boy grows up to be like his parents. It's a shame to lose them_." He coughed. "_So Mom's not taking it well_?"

"She couldn't be taking it worse," he replied softly. "The Waynes were in our restaurant on the night they died. They stopped by for dinner before they went to see an opera. When they left the opera early, a man approached them." His voice cracked. "I saw it in the newspaper the next morning. Your mother is devastated."

Giorgio could almost hear his son frown. "_I'll give her a call later._"

"She'd appreciate that, Phil."

"_I know._"

Taking a deep breath, Giorgio chose to switch topics. "How's Lillian?"

"_Sick. Stomach flu. I'm glad it's the weekend though, or I'd have to take a few days off. Monty needs company, and Lillian's been bed and bathroom-ridden since Friday night._"

Monty. His granddaughter. The lively six-year-old was an incredibly gregarious child with a docile demeanor and an almost industrious mindset: an odd combo of traits for one so young. Giorgio and Nancy had been there for her sixth birthday, and had watched in amusement as she demanded her father refrain from assisting her as she assembled her newly acquired LEGO set.

In such a mournful time, Giorgio relished in that memory of his granddaughter.

There was still goodness in the world.

"Is Monty doing well? Is she ready to turn seven?"

"_You know her. She's a teenager trapped in a six-year-old's body. She's ready. Heck, she's more than ready._" At last, the young man released a chuckle. "_You should see her, Dad. She's just like Lillian. Precocious, intelligent… she's _reading_ to us, for God's sake._"

"_Just_ like Lillian," Giorgio agreed. "That's wonderful, Phil. Of course you would breed intelligent children. I didn't expect anything less."

The two men spoke for a few minutes more, until Philip had to go; Lillian was in the bathroom again, puking, and Monty was calling for her father.

"_Tell Mom I'll call her later, okay? I'm really sorry about the Waynes._"

Biting his lip, Giorgio wiped his brow and stood from his chair. "Thanks, Phil. I'll tell her."

"_Love you, Dad._"

The words were so simple.

He was grateful to hear them.

Thomas Wayne would never hear them again.

"I love you, too, son."

"_Bye._"

"Bye."


	3. Elisabeth

**Bat Appétit**  
A _Batman Begins/Dark Knight/Dark Knight Rises_ Fanfic by SouthernImagineer/ecto1B  
Chapter Three - dedicated to my addictions to Netflix, chocolate, and David Arkenstone's music, which helped me survive this chapter.

* * *

"Watching a peaceful death of a human being reminds us of a falling star; one of a million lights in a vast sky that flares up for a brief moment only to disappear into the endless night forever." – Elisabeth Kübler-Ross

Giorgio didn't understand why it had to happen so quickly, so soon into their lives, hasty enough to destroy the ripening progression of their elderly years. Perhaps he'd always expected a tranquil retirement to a small home far from Gotham's reaches, a handful of calm nights on the porch, holding his wife's hand and rocking back and forth with her in a wooden chair long enough to fit them both. Perhaps he'd over-idealized the lifestyle for an older couple to relish in. Perhaps he didn't deserve it.

But she did.

Had it been the early mornings and long nights spent wasting away at the restaurant? Had it been weeks with scarce sleep and occasional glasses of water? Dehydration? Months of cold-like symptoms and intermittent bouts of the stomach flu? Or was it the city that did it, with its crime-ridden streets and polluted atmosphere? The murky shadows and dark alleyways did no good when promoting a healthy lifestyle. Was that to blame?

Whichever cause had rocked her, Nancy hadn't truly minded. The occasion was to be anything but sad. She'd even asked Giorgio for a lively banquet in her name, one filled with music and dancing. Her entire family would be there, along with every friend, every coworker, every person who wished to celebrate Nancy De Luca's name with glasses high and smiles on every face.

"I don't want any tears," she'd said, reaching out to him as she huddled her small body in the hospital bed. "No slideshow of depressing photos from my childhood. No mournful prayers or sobbing family. No wearing black. I want joy. Color. A gala to memorialize me for what I am, and not for what I left behind." Her face had almost smiled then, noticing the tears Giorgio began to cry. "Have our restaurant cater it. Fill the hall with my food and my love, and not with the remnants of sad times."

It was only three years after that night with the Wayne family. Three years of deteriorating health and a progressive loss of strength, of mundane work and empty days. There were no visits from Philip and his family, only infrequent phone calls and photos sent in the mail.

Giorgio wondered if this monumental loss of meaning had anything to do with Nancy's decline.

He continued to wonder this at the wake.

"Holy Lord, almighty and eternal God, hear our prayers for your servant Nancy, whom you have summoned out of this world."

The priest spoke with such intensity that Giorgio felt himself begin to cry once more. He could almost hear Nancy scolding him. _I told you I didn't want any tears!_

"Forgive her sins and failings and grant her a place of refreshment, light, and peace. Let her pass unharmed through the gates of death to dwell with the blessed in light, as you promised to Abraham and his children forever. Accept Nancy into your safekeeping and on the great day of judgment, raise her up with all the saints to inherit your eternal kingdom."

The priest raised both arms high into the air.

"We ask this through Christ our Lord. Amen."

Because of Nancy's request, the wake became a lighthearted function, a party that brought together both sides of the family to commemorate the woman's long, devoted life. To pay tribute to her heritage, traditional Irish tunes were played (with a few Italian pieces thrown in for Giorgio's side, as well). The faces that lined the room had been downhearted at one point, for they were stained in red, but as the night progressed, lips began to curl, chuckling gradually echoed, and revelry triumphed. In truth, Giorgio knew the moment to be a sad one, but seeing the members of his family and his staff enjoying their time together in Nancy's honor was a sincere pleasure. It warmed his heart to see them so merry, and he knew that wherever Nancy was, she would surely be smiling down upon them all.

A lone thought—innocuous, yet troubling enough to gain his attention—pervaded his state of contemplation as he sat there, observing the festivities from a distance. He recalled it as he found his son in the crowd, twirling around the dance floor with his daughter in his arms. Lillian, Philip's wife, sat a few tables away, every once in a while sipping at a flute of champagne; her face, often inscrutable, was surprisingly calm. Seeing them like this… Giorgio gulped and went for his own glass of wine. The realization had hit him hard.

Philip and his family would move to Gotham.

It was an unexpected decision, brought about by Philip himself as he spoke to his father the day before. The young man felt guilty for not being near his mother during her passing, and he was determined to relieve his aging father of the duties _De Luca's_ burdened him with. Though Giorgio protested, claiming he was fully capable of running the restaurant alone, Philip believed otherwise.

_You can't go at it alone, Dad. I've been absent all these years while you and Mom ran yourselves into the ground. I left my childhood here in Gotham when I married Lillian, when we chose to live closer to her family. For a while, it was fine, but now that this happened? Dad, I'm not losing you, too. The restaurant's tough. Hell, the _city's_ tough. I won't let you stand by yourself, and I won't let you lose that restaurant. And what better place is there for Monty right now? I grew up at that restaurant, washing dishes, and I turned out okay. Let me bring them. We'll buy an apartment near yours, help you run it. Lillian can find an event coordinator job somewhere in the city and I can raise Monty where she belongs, at _De Luca's._ Things will work out._

Despite Giorgio's many tries to convince his son otherwise, Philip would not budge on the matter. He would put up their home in Kentucky up for sale in the next week.

Briefly, the older gentleman glanced upward. Though his eyes saw ceiling, his heart saw Nancy there, looking down at him with a playful grin on her face and her eyes flooded entirely of warmth.

"Our boy's coming home," he murmured, quietly enough so that his words drowned in the ballroom's noise. He paused to bite his lip. "What do you say to that, Nan? Is that right?"

He could almost see her nodding.

_Let him come._

* * *

She was only ten when her grandmother was taken from her, when her family abruptly uprooted from Louisville, Kentucky and whisked away to Gotham City. At that age, she was intelligent enough to know _what_ was happening to her, but not _why_.

"Grandpa Giorgio needs us," her father had explained, patting her head. "He needs someone to help him at the restaurant."

If that was the case, why hadn't her grandfather just hired more help? Why did her family have to pack up and leave in order to help him? Why couldn't Monty finish elementary school in Kentucky with all her friends?

"He needs _family_, Monty. He has enough staff. He wants _us_ to be there."

Monty couldn't say she understood the reasoning, but she dared not question her father. Not then, at least. But now? Now she could question him. Now she had reason to ask her father about the past. She was verging on twenty-seven years old, seventeen of them spent living in Gotham. Not once had she been given answers pertaining to the hasty move north. Sure, her job at the family restaurant, _De Luca's_, was incredibly engrossing, and the city wasn't as _bad_ as people worked it up to be, but throughout those seventeen long years, Monty had always wondered about the move and why it was so significant. After a while, Monty became mature enough to surmise that her father felt terribly ashamed when Grandma Nancy died, ashamed that he hadn't been there for her, and the move to Gotham was an effort to compensate for that.

Whether or not Monty was supposed to be angry with him, she hadn't a clue.

Monty enjoyed Gotham, despite it being forced upon her. She had discovered an inherent knack for cooking once arriving there, fervently pounding away within the restaurant's kitchen from sunrise to sunset and falling madly in love with _De Luca's_ itself. The Culinary Institute of America opened their doors as her college; Monty, in that regard, was grateful to live in Gotham City, for a girl in Louisville, she assumed, wouldn't go far.

She was stubborn, though. Studious. Hardly ever did she spend time with friends, or go out dancing, or even sit down and drink a beer like the others her age did. Her career came first, and to Monty, there was nothing wrong with that. Exertion pleased her. Effort soothed her brain. Though her family was quite secure at _De Luca's_, what with her grandfather still owning the establishment and her father running it, Monty felt it necessary to have two jobs now that she had finished college. When she wasn't behind the stove at the restaurant, she donned a barista's uniform at a local coffee shop.

Her parents always wondered why she didn't leave Gotham. A woman trained at such an elite college should not be waiting tables and serving cappuccinos, they'd tell her. Knowledge like that should be handled gingerly, taken care of and polished finely!

But Monty wanted to stay.

_De Luca's_ was her home.

Gotham was her home.

And nothing would scare her away.

* * *

Twenty years after they died.

Twenty years after he witnessed Hell's gaping doorway grinning like the mouth of a serpent in his path, flames spurting, bubbling from behind the teeth and tongue of the mighty snake.

Twenty years, and he was back in Gotham for good.

Thirty-year-old Bruce Wayne didn't consider himself a fallen star. He'd been in Bhutan all those years, training with Ra's and the League, training to become the symbol that Gotham deserved. And he would become that symbol… somehow. With Alfred as his watchful eye, Bruce Wayne would become the Batman.

It made so much sense.

* * *

**A/N: And so we've made our way ****through the first-ish portion of Batman Begins. These last few chapters have mainly been backstory, letting you get to know the characters, but the next chapter will fly through Batman Begins and The Dark Knight, and then we'll FINALLY see Monty and Bruce meet. I promise, the build-up will definitely be worth it! Eventually, I might have to change the rating to M, but you can't be too sure...**

**Reviews are greatly appreciated! Constructive criticism is ALSO appreciated, because I'm not perfect!**

**Also, if you've been on the lookout for a fantastic Bane/OC fic, check out "Criminal Habits" by b4tmans. She's my best friend, and I know it'd mean a lot to her if you stopped by and checked it out.**

**Thanks to everyone who's favorited and followed this story, as well!**

**(You might notice, each chapter is named for the person whose quote I used at the beginning. Smart, eh? Heh.)**


	4. Pablo

**Bat Appétit**  
A _Batman Begins/Dark Knight/Dark Knight Rises_ Fanfic by SouthernImagineer/ecto1B  
Chapter Four - dedicated to Team USA, who's kicking some serious _ass_ at the Olympics right now!

* * *

"When I work I relax; doing nothing or entertaining visitors makes me tired." – Pablo Picasso

**(Note: This chapter takes place between Batman Begins and The Dark Knight)**

Rarely ever did Alfred feel the need to take a day off. Bruce was practically family, and leaving the man alone at the penthouse (they'd just begun the reconstruction of the manor, leaving Alfred and Bruce no choice to relocate elsewhere) was something Alfred hated to do. Bruce insisted, however. The chaos in the city had tired them both; the Batman was known throughout Gotham as a hero, and that, alone, was enough to put a heavy strain on the billionaire and his butler. With Batman's success, Bruce gained new responsibilities, a new code of living that had to be strictly adhered to; a balance Alfred was great at checking. And when Alfred was so tremendously required, nothing could pull him away from performing those duties. Yet, it was the humanitarian within Bruce—the altruistic mindset he'd inherited from his parents—that knew his older friend deserved a break.

"Alfred, go. I'm _asking_ you. You need a day off."

The gray haired man simply shook his head. His eyes were soft, and his motions, relaxed, having just woken Bruce from a well-deserved night of sleep. The thirty-year-old playboy still lay in bed with the covers haphazardly thrown to the side, and as Alfred watched him stir, he felt a pang of recollection at the sight. How often had he seen Bruce wake like this, wincing at the touch of the sheets against his skin? How often _would_ he have to see the man covered in cuts and bruises? A month had barely passed since the problems with Ra's and the League of Shadows. How much more of this agony was Bruce able to take? How much could Alfred take? The_ price of playing servant to a superhero_ he thought grimly._ Perhaps I'll never get used to it. _

"I had seven years off when you left, Master Bruce," he said finally. "I rested plenty then."

"Alfred." Now Bruce sat up in bed. He ran a languid hand through his hair and groaned. "At least treat yourself to lunch without me. Steal away for an hour or two." Bruce peeked from behind his hand. "Head to a café downtown. I know how much you enjoy Italian food. There's a bunch of places there that I'm sure you haven't tried." His eyes pleaded. "If not an entire day, then a few hours, Alfred. Please."

_I'm terrible at saying no,_ Alfred surmised a few minutes later, turning the key to the Rolls Royce and igniting the engine. _I've got to work on that._

It took him a while to decide on a place for lunch. Bruce was right; Alfred thoroughly enjoyed Italian restaurants (hence his occasional trips to Florence, Italy) and the numerous chains and bistros he came across as he drove through Gotham each had their own unique take on the famous European cuisine. At last, however, he settled on one of the older places, a restaurant he swore he'd never seen, even though the sign boasted a heritage of nearly fifty years in Gotham. Luckily, Alfred found a parking spot nearby and, after assuring that the expensive vehicle was tightly locked, stepped inside.

At once, the succulent scent of freshly made pasta and pizza wove Alfred's nostrils inside out. Silently, he took a full breath of the smell, unable to suppress the smile that dawned on his face as he did so. The aroma blended with the heat of the oven, forcing the entire building to stand at a tolerably humid temperature. Ironically, it appeared to match the heat of Rome in the summer, though it was verging on fall in Gotham; Alfred chuckled at that. Then, Alfred noticed speakers lining the walls, each proclaiming a leisurely tune with the steady warbling of Italian at its side.

His senses were blown away.

It was pleasantly almost too much for the man to handle.

"Welcome to _De Luca's_, sir!"

Alfred turned to address whomever had spoken, still letting his smile brand his lips. It was a woman, he discovered, and she beamed at him from behind the hostess stand.

"Thank you," he returned politely.

"Party of one?" He saw her dive for the menus, pulling one from the stack and placing it under her arm. When he nodded, she nodded back. "Follow me, please, sir."

He did as he was instructed, even though his gaze danced about the restaurant's interior on the way. From the look of the paintings and wall decorations about the dining room, Alfred assumed the owners were actual Italians, and not phonies intending to make a quick dollar. If the restaurant was as old as the sign claimed—

"Sir?"

The redheaded woman lightly tapped him on the shoulder, then gestured to the table beside them.

"Here you are, sir. Your table."

Alfred, mildly embarrassed by his mind's wandering, thanked her and sat down. She placed the menu in front of him.

"Your waitress will be right over," she told him. "If there's anything you need, don't hesitate to ask her."

_Friendly staff. Very friendly. American, but still._

Alfred chuckled at his own joke.

He'd only had time to scan over the menu before another young woman approached the table. Unlike the other, she was blonde, with a modest smile and a warmth about her that reminded Alfred greatly of the restaurant itself. Unlike the other waiters and waitresses scurrying around, this woman wore a tan apron over jeans and a t-shirt. Her nametag—something Alfred had just noticed—was smeared with flour. It read "Monty."

"Good afternoon, sir," she said. Her fingers danced along the small notebook in her hand. "My name is Monty, and I'll be taking care of you. Can I start you off with something to drink?" The words flew effortlessly from her tongue, as if she'd said them a hundred times. "The house merlot, perhaps?"

Alfred set the menu down, and focused completely on the waitress. It was a habit of his, a polite habit he thought the woman deserved. She was obviously supposed to be back in the kitchen, cooking. Perhaps they were short on staff? Whatever it was, Alfred knew to smile just as kindly back up at her as she did to him. "That sounds wonderful," he replied. "The house merlot, please."

She seemed shocked that he was giving her his undivided attention… or maybe it was his cockney accent that startled her. Gotham wasn't known for its British inhabitants. "I-I'll go put that in right away. Thank you."

And she was gone, vanishing behind the double doors to the kitchen.

Alfred returned to the menu.

Again, it only took a few moments before Monty was back with his wine—and a small basket of breadsticks.

"_Grissini_," Alfred remarked.

The woman gave him another look of surprise as she set the basket and goblet onto the table. "Have you lived in Italy before, sir? Not many people know the actual name for a breadstick."

He laughed. "No, but I've spent a great deal of time in Florence. You pick up a lot of odd knowledge when you're my age." Gently, he took the wine glass in one hand and sipped it. "Are you from Italy?"

"I wish. My great-grandparents are. They're the one's that started this restaurant." Monty pointed across the room to the far wall, where a large black and white photo hung. In it, a man and woman stood, arm in arm, outside an Italian-looking building. Their smiles were friendly. "They came here in the fifties, after World War Two was over and done. They liked America better, I guess." Alfred saw her study the photo intently. "My grandpa was born here, in Gotham, and the whole family ran this restaurant. Been that way ever since." Realizing she'd strayed far into the story, she laughed sheepishly. "But no, I'm not from Italy."

Alfred took another sip of wine, chuckling from behind the rim. "You sound very devoted to this place. It's a beautiful establishment."

"Thank you!" Her grin widened substantially. "Grandpa De Luca's put everything into this place. So has my dad, and, I guess, so have I. It's very important to all of us." She paused, blinking, as if washing away mishandled thoughts. "Anyway, sir, excuse my rambling. What would you like for lunch?"

Alfred hadn't minded her rambling. _The granddaughter of the owner? A pleasant surprise. Good to see young souls working this hard. She'd get along with Bruce._ He cleared his throat, eyeing the menu once more. "I'll have the ravioli."

Hearing this, Monty brightened. "Yes, sir. I'll make that right away."

"_Make_ it?"

The woman stopped walking away and came back, smirking. "Yes, sir. I'm actually a cook here, but every now and then I like to come out here and wait tables." She shrugged. "I'm trying to prove to my mom that I'm a sociable person."

Reaching for a breadstick, Alfred smiled and shook his head. _She really _is _a hard worker. Admirable. _"I just hope my ravioli's good!"

"Oh, don't worry, sir." She saluted him as she ducked into the kitchen. "It will be."

And it was. Roughly ten minutes later, she returned with a steaming plate of ravioli to place before her customer.

Alfred couldn't have been more satisfied.

"This is _delicious_!" he said to her, cutting another ravioli in half with his fork. The mouthwatering cheese and beef filling trickled out, melding with the tomato sauce on his plate. "It tastes exactly like the pasta in Florence. Well done, my dear!"

The corners of her cheekbones tinted red. "Thank you so much, sir. That recipe took me a while to perfect. Enjoy it!"

With that, she left him to delve into the multitude of smells and tastes the dish evoked. Alfred was glad; he didn't want her to see him frown.

He wished Bruce had come.

Once his empty plate had been retrieved, the bill paid for, and the last drip of wine extracted from the glass, Alfred stood from his chair and dipped his head in Monty's direction. She had returned to her cooking duties in the kitchen, but that didn't stop her from poking her head from the double doors and waving to him as he left.

"Come back soon, Mr. Pennyworth!"

Chuckling, he smiled at the blonde woman.

"I most certainly will."

As the door swung shut behind him, Alfred pondered the thought.

_With Bruce, if I can get him._

Alfred reached the Rolls Royce and unlocked the door.

He shook his head.

_Unlikely._

* * *

There was a light nudge on the kitchen door, and at once Monty spotted a flurry of red hair. Katie, the hostess, entered, her lips quirked awkwardly and her eyes narrowed.

"Who was that, Monty?" she asked, approaching the woman. "He looks _very_ familiar to me." She rapped a finger against her chin. "I swear I've seen him before."

Monty hummed along to the music from the dining room and continued stirring the pot in front of her. "His name was… Alfred, I think. Alfred Pennyworth?" When Katie gasped, Monty stopped stirring. "What?"

"Alfred Pennyworth. Christ, honey, do you not _know_ who he works for?"

Monty gave her a look. "Does it look like I pay attention to celebrities?" She motioned down at her flour-covered apron and clothes, and then to her poor attempt at a ponytail. "I'm in here all week, and then on weekends I'm at _Madigan's_ serving coffee to—"

"Honey." Katie grabbed Monty's shoulders firmly and shook them. "You don't understand. Alfred Pennyworth works for _Bruce Wayne_."

Faintly, Monty's eyes began to widen. Yes. Yes, she knew that name. It was one she was familiar with, one that held a great deal of power and influence over the city… a position Monty envied with ever fiber of her being. "Bruce…"

"_The_ Bruce Wayne. The billionaire. The playboy that recently waltzed into a hotel with two bimbos on his arms and bought the place with a snap of his fingers?" To emphasize her point, Katie snapped her fingers dramatically in the air. "Yeah. You just waited on _his butler_."

The first word that came out of Monty's mouth was one she wasn't too fond of. It made her sound high and mighty, and there was _no_ way she was high and mighty when compared to _Bruce Wayne_.

"So?"

"_So_? Girl, you have _connections_ now." Katie spoke as if it were obvious. "You know how you're always saying you want what's best for this restaurant? You know how you work your _ass_ off every day to keep it neat and tidy for your dad? Well." Another hand motion came into play, this one almost hitting Monty in the chest. Katie was known for her theatrics. "Bruce Wayne is a man you should be paying _close_ attention to when it comes to investments. He'd make a great business partner when your dad hands this place off to you."

Shaking her head thoroughly, Monty returned to the pot in front of her, stirring the wooden spoon harder now. "And why would he want to be my business partner? Why would he care about _De Luca's_? My family is the only group of people that care enough about _De Luca's_ to fight for it." She rolled her shoulders. "He's a preppy playboy who likes bimbos, _like you said_. No interest in the hardworking Gothamites here in town."

It was Katie's turn to give her a look. "Two days ago, you were praising the Wayne family, going on and on about how the Bruce we see in the papers is just a persona, because what dummy would invest so much money into orphanages and schools around the city? He donates thousands of dollars to charities in town, and because of that, you look up to him, you said!"

Again, Monty stopped what she was doing and faced her friend. "All right, Katie, yes. I look up to him. But what would he want with a little _trattoria_ like _De Luca's_?"

Katie put a finger to her lips. After a moment, she spoke.

"I don't know."

"See? I'm right."

"You're always right. I just thought—"

"It's fine, Katie." Monty offered the woman a smile. "Look, we'll talk about this later. Right now, you should go back to the stand." She glanced through the open kitchen doorway, smirking. "It looks like Danielle took over your job."

Katie's jaw dropped into an exaggerated gasp.

"Oh, no she didn't."

Monty laughed, watching the redhead hurry back out to the front of the restaurant.

No matter how genuine Katie's point had been, Monty knew to disregard it.

_Bruce Wayne investing in my family's restaurant?_

She shook her head.

_Unlikely._

* * *

**A/N: So hopefully you've detected the parallelism between Bruce's life - through Alfred - and Monty's life already! If you have, way to go!**_  
_

**I read and study a lot of American authors and their techniques, and I'm trying to imitate a few styles... I love using symbolism in my stories, so if you've detected any, a big hurray for you, too!**

**I'll let you know now that Monty and Bruce won't meet until The Dark Knight is over with...**

**Please review! I love constructive criticsm. **

**Gracias.**


	5. Winston

**Bat Appétit**  
A _Batman Begins/Dark Knight/Dark Knight Rises_ Fanfic by SouthernImagineer/ecto1B  
Chapter Five - dedicated to my grandparents, who are absolutely fantastic to me.

* * *

"If you're going through hell, keep going." - Winston Churchill

It happened nine months after the incident in the Narrows with the Batman.

Eight months after Alfred Pennyworth first paid _De Luca's_ a visit.

And mere _days_ after the Joker finally showed his painted face in Gotham.

Since his first visit, Alfred had been dropping by once a week to have lunch, always happy to chat with Monty, always ready for questions and earnest conversation. Monty enjoyed his company, and began to see the man as a genuine father figure as the days progressed. Every time he arrived, he ordered something new, and every time, Monty cooked the meal and let the older gentleman have his feast while they prattled like old friends. They discussed work, and what it meant to be a good employee (they had that in common), and sometimes even spoke about Alfred's employer, Bruce Wayne. They chewed over the latest politics, over presidential candidates, and often tried to determined just how certain fixes could be performed on the country's current state. Occasionally, Alfred spoke of his infrequent trips to Italy, detailing the sights and sounds of the country to Monty, who'd dreamed of traveling to her family's homeland countless times before.

And for those eight months, things were peaceful.

When the Joker came into play, endangering the Gotham citizens once more, Monty did not expect Alfred to stop by on his usual day, or at all, for that matter. She hoped he deemed it more important to remain with Bruce Wayne during such a petrifying point in time.

Alfred was lucky he missed that day.

Monty wished everyone at _De Luca's_ had missed it, too.

"I thought I dismissed you an _hour_ ago, Monty!" Lillian shuffled into the kitchen, slapping her daughter's ponytail with a menu. "You've been here since nine in the morning! Go home." With a sweeping motion, Lillian gestured to the other workers nearby. "There's more than enough staff here tonight to finish up. You've worked long enough today. Go home." She gave her daughter a look, the same look she always pulled when another realization had hit her. "Go _on a date_, for Christ's sake. Meet a guy! Go hang out with friends! Be social for once in your life!"

Monty slowly pulled her eyes from the sink. She'd already received enough admonishment for the day from her father, thanks to an accidental slip-up in the kitchen involving incorrectly labeled ingredients. The last thing she needed was her own mother ridiculing her work ethic. "Today was supposed to be my social day, Mom," she replied hotly, pursing her lips, "but as you are well aware, the city is a bit bigger than a fixed schedule, or even my social life. Mr. Pennyworth isn't going to visit when that _madman_ is out and about, you know." With a sigh of disgust, Monty curled her lip and squeezed the sponge in her hand. "I hold an older gentleman's safety over my 'personal needs.' Is that something you should be scolding your twenty-six—almost twenty-seven—year old daughter about?"

She could see seniority in her mother's eyes, a lack of strength to challenge Monty over something so trivial. At first, Monty thought this was a sign of surrender… until Lillian countered just as firmly as she'd done when Monty was younger.

"Fine."

Lillian strode over to one of the nearby racks and set the menu down, dodging an incoming server on her way.

"Your father and I are headed home. Grandpa Giorgio left already."

She kept her back to her daughter as she spoke, but the pause in between sentences was enough to signify a decisive attack on the horizon…

Monty braced herself for the worst.

"You're in charge of kitchen duty, as well as cleaning and closing the place down."

_Maybe she won't say it…_

"And no, Curtis isn't allowed to help you."

_Horse shit._

Curtis was a few years younger than Monty's father. He'd been at _De Luca's_ since he'd left high school, working in the kitchen as head chef whenever Giorgio wasn't around. Over the years, he'd become Monty's closest friend, someone the woman could confide to when there were actually things worth confiding.

Needless to say, he was _used_ to closing up the restaurant. He knew how to move things efficiently, how to clear the house and clean it, too. He was _used_ to such responsibility.

Monty, on the other hand, wasn't.

No matter her fondness for toil and industry, no matter her love of exerting herself and working hours no other human would dare take, Monty disliked leadership. She'd much rather be the cog in the mix, functioning alongside the other cogs and making the clock chime. Being the key was too big of a job. Being anything other than the cog was pointless.

Closing the restaurant without Curtis's help?

Painful.

"Mom." At once, Monty dropped the sponge in the sink and hurried to block Lillian from leaving. "Curtis closes, not me, if Grandpa isn't here. You know that. You can't just—"

Lillian's airy gaze flew to find someone in the kitchen. She ignored her daughter. "Curtis!"

"Mom…" Monty groaned.

_She never listens._

A man at the back of the kitchen, having heard the call, nodded. He maneuvered through the swarm of cooks in his way and approached the two women, smiling.

"Yes, ma'am?"

"Curtis." Lillian dipped her head at him. "Philip and I are leaving."

The man's wrinkled face contorted a bit in thought. "You want me to close?"

"No. I want Monty to close." When Monty huffed, Lillian flashed another look at her. "If she wants to waste away here all day, so be it. She can stay until closing and actually _do_ the prepping for tomorrow." Steadily, she raised a finger, pointing at Curtis. "Don't help her. She could use the human interaction."

It took a moment for the man to respond. Perhaps hoping Lillian wouldn't notice, Curtis met Monty's eyes in a _what the hell did you do now?_ sort of manner, but the young woman could only shrug and grumble.

"Um… yes, ma'am. I'll let her close." Nodding, he pursed his lips. "Whatever you say."

Lillian had never been one for reading facial expressions. She stood no chance in detecting the hesitance in her employee's words, nor the amusement lining his green eyes. Monty, however, smiled at both.

"Thanks, Curtis." Scooping her purse into her arm, Lillian dipped her head. "Bye, Monty." She kissed her daughter's cheek, staining Monty's skin with the last traces of her lipstick. "Close it up _correctly_ please. I expect everything to be prepped and ready."

"I'm twenty-six, Mom," she called after her, scraping the lipstick from her cheek and frowning as the restaurant's back door shut with an unusually loud bang.

"I can… handle it…"

Monty slowly turned to meet Curtis's gaze, trailing off.

Behind him, Monty saw the kitchen door ajar, Katie standing far beyond it. She was leading a last-minute group of diners to their table, smiling all the way.

There were a few young couples seated in the booths lining the wall. All were immersed in pleasant conversation.

The smell of bread—almost tasting burnt to her tongue—punctured her senses.

Dean Martin's voice came from the wall speakers in the dining room, brightly singing about love and pizza pie in "That's Amore."

Monty remembered thinking that all was well within _De Luca's_ walls, for these were good signs, not bad. Though her mother left her with a devastating task, Monty had a feeling Curtis wouldn't disregard their friendship. He would help her.

But that bang. That _bizarre_ bang.

It bothered her.

It hit home.

Monty was on the floor before she could think any further, a crack ripping through the air and an explosion beside the kitchen's oven snapping hard enough to send the kitchen staff reeling. Fire torched about the countertops, setting edibles and kitchenware aflame in seconds; screams from the adjoining dining room proved of another side outburst, this one most likely finding the booths against the wall and any poor patrons nearby.

Screams erupted almost simultaneously.

An unholy sear of fire seemed to wave at her from the oven.

Monty tried to move, but couldn't. Her body froze itself on the tile floor.

"_Monty_!"

Was that a voice behind the panic? A friendly notion behind the chaos?

The sacrilegious flames burned on.

"Monty, we have to _MOVE_!"

Someone was definitely calling her. She could see a hunched body tripping over to her through the smoke, covering its mouth, hacking and wheezing loudly.

The smoke was pretty. It curled around the ceiling and the fire, dancing, teasing, weaving its way around the darkened kitchen, staining the once white aprons of the employees nearby.

_Shit. What am I doing?_

_I must've… hit my head… or something…_

Monty, too, hacked against the polluted air. It smelled of burnt food and gasoline. Her arms somehow gained strength by adrenaline, and she heaved herself up from the floor… and into Curtis's outstretched arms.

She saw him through the fumes when she fell against his chest, and as he dragged her slackened body towards the restaurant's back exit. The side of Curtis's face was burnt from the explosion. A long scar of sorts ran down his temple to his jaw, cutting through the multiple laugh lines and wrinkles he'd gained as he aged.

_Sickening._

Monty didn't want to stop and look to see if there was anyone still on the floor of _De Luca's_. She didn't want to see if anyone had been seriously hurt, if anyone was lying there, letting the life slip from between their lips—

Choking out a cry of terror, Monty fell to her knees beside the back door.

"Monty, come on!" Now with a hand to his face, Curtis grabbed the woman's arm and yanked her down the stairs, helping her sit against the back alley wall.

Sirens screamed nearby.

"Th-The building next door," Curtis managed. "The abandoned one… something must've w-went off…"

Both Monty and Curtis looked across the way, eyeing the small building, which was currently engulfed in flames. Police officers and firemen swarmed the area; their eyes were all locked upon the building as it sparked in fire, as if it were some giant creature in the midst of devouring itself. A few firemen, they saw, were also hurrying to help those still trapped inside _De Luca's_.

"Who would want anything to do with that building?" Monty breathed, wiping away a tear.

Noticing her shivering form, Curtis bent down and hugged his friend.

"How m-much do you wanna bet it was Joker?" he coughed, frowning. "The Batman will come and handle it, d-don't worry. He'll get 'im."

Monty sighed, her eyes shutting and her body shaking. Tears streamed past her jaw, dripping down onto Curtis's shoulder.

_How much of the restaurant was damaged? How many casualties were there? Katie? Is she all right? All the guests… I hope we didn't lose anyone. Oh God. The restaurant._

"Th-The restaurant…" she bubbled.

Curtis gripped her tighter.

"I kn-know."

* * *

**A/N: You might've noticed that this changed from being a Bruce/OC story to a Bruce/OC/John story.**

**Yupp. I went there.**

**You'll just have to hang tight and see!**


	6. Imbesi

**Bat Appétit**  
A _Batman Begins/Dark Knight/Dark Knight Rises_ Fanfic by SouthernImagineer/ecto1B  
Chapter Six - dedicated to Joseph Gordon-Levitt, my new obsession.

* * *

"In order for something to become clean, something else must become dirty." - Imbesi's Conservation of Filth Law

"So that's it, then?" Alfred peered down at him, his mouth curled downward into a frown. "You're not leaving? You're not leaving the east wing."

As if it were obvious, Bruce gave the older man a lethargic look. "I'm not leaving," he repeated. His fingers toyed with the hem of the chair's armrest, despondently attempting to keep his mind from wandering, and by the glint in his eye, Alfred knew it wasn't working. "There's nothing out there for me anymore. I need time to…" Bruce trailed off, searching his brain for the right word, "… recuperate."

Alfred shifted his weight and locked his fingers behind his back. He edged his voice along with his next two questions, hoping not to startle his employer. "And how long will you be recuperating, Master Bruce?" Lighter, he asked, "How long will _Batman_ take to recuperate?"

The sound of the dark knight's name struck a chord with Bruce.

"Batman's _done_," he snarled, and Alfred visibly winced.

He hadn't been expecting that.

"Well then."

Bruce's face crumbled, and he shrunk back, pain apparent in his eyes. He clearly hadn't meant to speak so harshly, enough to hurt his friend. "I'm s-sorry, Alfred. I didn't mean—"

But Alfred shook his head, knowing the battle wasn't worth fighting. Any hope to fixing the young man had been lost with the recent death of Rachel Dawes. "No, Master Bruce, it's all right." He took a step back, receding into the shadow of the room like Bruce had done so many times as the Batman. "I'll leave you be. If you need anything, you know where to find me."

For a moment, Bruce looked as if he would protest.

Instead, he sighed, settling back in his chair.

"All right."

Alfred, nodding, left and shut the door.

The click of the door echoed around the manor corridor, signaling the start of Bruce's eight year long seclusion, the start of three soft footfalls on the wood floor upstairs (the extra one belonging to his cane, which Bruce began using in the third week of his solitude). It was the start of a separation, where Bruce let his body and soul hide from the real world, weaving itself behind a false one. Bruce would try to hide from the truth, from the notion that the Batman was a wanted man, Harvey had turned over, and Rachel had died. His entire world had been heaved into the air and then splintered into millions of tiny pieces in a matter of days, and Bruce was convinced this was the end of the Batman.

The dark knight would not rise again.

Besides Alfred, Bruce made no human contact during those long eight years… well, unless you counted Monty.

* * *

"We don't have enough money to fix it, Philip," Giorgio sighed, exasperation evident in his tone. His fingers drummed ruthlessly against the kitchen countertop, eyeing the sheets of paper splayed before him. Light from the apartment window seemed to dance around the few bolded words on the paper, enough to taunt the three adults into shooting each other frowns, and Giorgio _hated_ it. He hated the realization, hated knowing that people had died at _De Luca's _three months ago, hated feeling so empty and damaged. Like the walls of the restaurant, Giorgio felt beaten, broken, ripped apart and burned until bones showed. He was exposed, hollowed out by an incident that never should have happened. Dreams and culture had fragmented alongside the explosion next door; the restaurant he'd inherited from his parents snapped from tradition and now sat, empty, on 52nd Street, silent and in disrepair.

It was like a dream to him; no, a nightmare more than a dream, a nightmare brought about by the devil's doing. Fire and smoke and ash had poisoned the cheerful Italian _trattoria _and sucked the life from its core, draining it of activity for three entire months.

Just like it had done to Giorgio himself.

Giorgio's son, Philip, thumped a fist on the granite counter. "Then we raise the money. We hold a fundraiser. I'm not done with this, Dad." He looked to his wife, Lillian, who slowly dipped her head. "None of us are."

"There has to be a recovery period," Lillian put in. "A point in time where _De Luca's_ shuts down and takes a break. In order to restore the place to its former glory, we need to take a step back and regain control of what it used to be. Repair the oven. Refurbish the dining room."

"Without the restaurant up and running, there is _no_ steady flow of cash!" Giorgio said firmly. "We were suffering enough after that Arkham incident. Our funds are down and we simply _can't_ make them back!" Lowering his voice, the man removed his glasses and rubbed his temples. "This could be the end of _De Luca's_." He paused, sucking in a breath. "It very well could be."

"We can't just give up!" A new voice encroached on the conversation, and the three adults turned to see Monty entering the apartment, grocery bags in hand and a look of sincere determination on her face. As she spoke, her parents and grandfather remained silent. "_De Luca's_ has been in Gotham since after WWII. It's _heritage_. It has meaning! We can't give up on it!" Heaving the bags over to the kitchen island, Monty began to load the fridge with the groceries. At one point, she hesitated, clutching a stalk of celery and shaking it meaningfully at her family. "I've been here for seventeen years, and I'm not letting any of them go to waste. I _will_ inherit a successful restaurant."

Giorgio frowned sadly at her. He loved his granddaughter a great deal because of her tenacity and acumen, but even he knew the attempt was pointless. "Hun, I know you're set on fixing everything, but we just don't have the necessary funds. We've been in a decline in the past nine months…"

"So?" Monty challenged, shaking the celery more forcefully. "Grandpa, _De Luca's_ belonged to your parents, _my_ great-grandparents. Don't you think they'd want you to try everything? To work your hardest to keep the business in the family?"

Nodding, Philip spoke. "Did you have an idea on how to raise money?" he asked her, hoping his daughter would have a valid answer. "A fundraiser of sorts?"

Much to everyone's surprise, Monty shook her head and continued to load the fridge. A small smile crept along her face. "No, Curtis and I came up with something earlier. I'm pretty sure it will work."

A long silence flooded the apartment.

"Are you going to _tell_ us?" Lillian demanded.

"Mom, calm down." Now the woman was blatantly grinning. "It's going to work. We're going to get the funds and fix the restaurant." She turned to face the sink and began washing her hands, unhurriedly extracting a bit of soap from the dispenser and running it along her knuckles.

Her family watched her, confounded.

"Well?" Philip prompted.

Once her hands were dry, Monty tossed the paper towel in the trash can and approached her family.

"I got a call this morning from Alfred Pennyworth. I set _De Luca's_ phone to forward all calls to my cell; he was asking if I could deliver a meal to the Wayne Manor tonight."

Giorgio and Philip exchanged glances.

"We don't deliver," Philip said instantly.

"We've _never_ delivered," Giorgio sputtered. "Not in the history of the restaurant."

"We _can't_ deliver!" Lillian piped in, fuming. "Monty, what is this? Doesn't Mr. Pennyworth know that the restaurant is out of commission for the time being? And what the heck does this have to do with earning the money?"

Monty shook her hands in the air, gesturing wildly. "Mom, don't you see? _Bruce Wayne_. _Bruce Wayne_, the eccentric billionaire? The meal Mr. Pennyworth requested is for _him_."

"Honey." Giorgio strained his voice and tried to be patient with his granddaughter. It was painful, hearing her mention Bruce Wayne, after everything that had happened. The boy had grown up to be most unlike his warmhearted parents, much to Giorgio's dismay, frivolously spending and showboating himself around Gotham, waltzing a new woman around on his arm every other day… Giorgio was almost glad Nancy wasn't around to see what Martha's son had turned into. "Bruce Wayne can't help us. He hasn't been seen in months. He hasn't left that mansion of his since the Joker was running around."

At the mention of the bizarre criminal's name, the entire family blanched.

"Grandpa, just… listen." Monty faced them from the other side of the counter, and waited until they were paying close attention. "Mr. Pennyworth requested _my_ cooking. He ate at _De Luca's_ every week for a while, and always loved my food. He wants the same for Mr. Wayne. Apparently the guy is going through some sort of midlife crisis; he won't leave the manor for anything. Mr. Pennyworth wants to surprise him tonight with a special dinner. He thinks it'll make him feel better."

Just as Lillian opened her mouth to protest, Monty hurried onwards.

"Now. About the money."

Lillian shut her mouth.

"This is Bruce Wayne. Billionaire. A rich guy locked up in the east wing of his ritzy home, not making human contact and not doing anything but moping about." Here, Monty took the pads of her fingers and tapped the spot just below her neck. "Surely he could use some human interaction. A _friend_ to talk to. Someone to impress him enough and to be kind enough to get a sympathy vote." She took a breath. "Anything to get the money for the restaurant."

Giorgio was shocked. Was his granddaughter _that_ dastardly? _That_ ingenious when it came to earning money? From the sound of it, it sounded like Monty was willing to play the 'female companion' card, and Giorgio was not about to let her do anything of the sort.

"Monty… I can't ask you to do this," he said quietly.

Lillian was less repressed in her response.

"How could you even _think_ of doing such a thing, Monty?!" the woman screeched. "Giving yourself up like that… no daughter of mine is becoming a filthy _prostitute_!"

Philip was in the midst of a handful of emotions. His head was shaking, his hands were vigorously crossing and motioning, and his eyes were clouded in fear and anger. "You're not doing this, Monty. No way. No _way_ am I letting you put yourself up like that, no matter the reason."

When Giorgio looked to Monty to see her reaction, he was startled. The smile hadn't left her face. "Mom, Dad, Grandpa, calm down! I'm not going to sex the guy up for money!"

Again, there was silence.

"All I have to do is suggest to Mr. Pennyworth that I bring over an Italian dish every week. Progressively, I'll befriend Mr. Wayne, and then from that I'll gain empathy. With empathy will come a need to help me in any way he can… and that will be to restore _De Luca's_ to its former glory." She dipped her head. "He's loaded. He makes more money in a _week_ then the amount we need to repair the restaurant. And it's for a good cause! It's helping the city repair itself after that shit with Joker happened!"

More silence. Giorgio didn't know whether to agree or disagree with his granddaughter's proposal. Sure, there was a chance her plan could work… though Wayne hadn't been seen since the Joker's attacks on the city, he was still a predictable gentleman, and probably wouldn't mind having someone around to talk to…

_This is my granddaughter we're talking about. One of the most important people in my life. I can't risk her safety for anything, even for the restaurant's sake. No way._

_She's twenty seven years old. She knows what she's doing. She's a smart girl. If something went wrong, she'd deal with it. We can't continue to shelter her like this. If she believes so firmly in this idea that she's willing to fight for it, she should fight._

Giorgio bit his lip. He noticed Philip and Lillian staring at him, silently begging for the older man to provide backup, to help reason with their daughter that the proposition was too precarious.

Slowly, Giorgio nodded at them, but it was not a nod in support of their fear.

"Philip. Your daughter has a point."

His son didn't object.

"She's twenty seven years old, and perfectly capable of taking care of herself. If she needs help, I trust that she will seek it." He swallowed thickly and rubbed his nose. "She's the future owner of _De Luca's_, and I believe she should participate in its preservation. If this is the method she seeks, then we should let her test it."

Slowly, he turned his head and faced Monty.

"Make Mr. Wayne your best dish."

Monty's smile widened substantially. She rounded the counter and pulled her grandfather into a tight hug.

"I won't let you down, Grandpa," she murmured softly. "_De Luca's_ will be saved. I promise."

Despite the plan's hollow insides and manipulative aspects, Giorgio had to let her proceed.

Bruce Wayne was _not_ Martha's son.

He was _not_ Thomas's son.

And this was _De Luca's_ last chance of survival.


	7. Thomas

**Bat Appétit**  
A _Batman Begins/Dark Knight/Dark Knight Rises_ Fanfic by SouthernImagineer/ecto1B  
Chapter Seven - dedicated to my family, the most important people in my life and the people that will love me forever.

* * *

"Do not do an immoral thing for moral reasons." – Thomas Hardy

It would be a wonderful dinner; Monty was sure of it. She would prepare the meal with only the finest ingredients she could get her hands on, with only the cleanest of kitchenware and on only the smoothest of countertops. Not much unlike how she cooked meals at _De Luca's_, Monty got to work right away, waiting until her parents and grandfather had returned to their own apartments to begin preparation.

She would make Mr. Wayne a delightful chicken piccata. It was a simple dish, but one she'd made hundreds of times.

Perfection.

Her hands dove into the fridge, pulling out skinless chicken breasts, brined capers, and parsley and setting them nearby. Snatching the butter dish and a few fresh lemons from the counter, Monty padded across the kitchen and to the pantry, where she filled her arms with containers of flour, olive oil, and chicken stock, again setting these ingredients beside her prep board and all her tools.

As she worked, she pondered.

_I wonder what he'll be like. He always looks handsome in the Gotham Gazette pictures. He most likely will _not_ be wearing a nice suit like he does there. After all, he hasn't left that mansion in… three months, was it? I'll guess a t-shirt and jeans. No, maybe a bathrobe. Just boxers? Boy, I can't say I'd mind that._

Briskly, she seasoned the chicken with a few shakes of salt and pepper, transferring the meat over and dredging it in flour. The smile on her face subconsciously came and went as she spoke to herself.

_Mr. Pennyworth raised him since his parents died. Surely he's not a completely bad man. He's bound to have some good qualities in there somewhere. After all, the Wayne Foundation is exceedingly generous in their donations to the city. The orphanages and whatnot. If his public persona is _really_ the truth, why the hell would he be keeping up this generous philanthropy?_

As she began to melt the butter and olive oil on a skillet, Monty fiddled with the stove handles and reasoned with herself. Only when it began to sizzle did she pause and put the chicken on.

_Maybe it's Mr. Pennyworth's doing. Maybe he's the one requesting that Mr. Wayne be so charitable. Maybe he's pulling the strings. _He's_ a good person. Definitely. That could be my answer._

_I wonder if the house is as lavish as everyone says. I think it burned down once… he had it rebuilt _exactly_ the same way as the original, too._

She huffed out loud.

_Either the guy is absolutely wonderful or absolutely out of his mind._

Six minutes later, both sides of the chicken had turned a crisp brown shade (she'd flipped it at the three minute mark). Gentle fingers helped the meat onto a temporary plate, and then the same fingers carefully poured the capers and chicken stock into the skillet. After juicing the lemons, she added the juice to the pan, too, scraping up the remnants of the chicken with a whisk and letting it add to the new mixture.

"Deglazing," Grandpa Giorgio called it.

_An Italian thing? Perhaps._

She went back to her regular train of thought, taking careful note of the settling darkness outside and the small digital clock on the wall. She'd promised Mr. Pennyworth that the meal would be over by six.

_I'll be there in time. Driving to the Palisades shouldn't take too long._

Changing the subject, she tossed her head and replaced the chicken back into the skillet, making sure to spread it nicely atop the caper-mixed liquid already there.

_So Mom doesn't think I socialize enough._

Monty smirked.

_Well now I'm heading into uncharted territory, darting off to woo a man into helping our restaurant. Good to know traditional relationships still exist. I won't actually be falling in love with the guy, though. No way. This is only for… only for his…_

Her mind trailed off, and her gaze became blank, hazy with signs of guilt.

_God. I'm taking advantage of a rich man to help save the family business._

A sigh escaped her.

_Am I really going through with this?_

_This isn't what good little Catholic girls do, is it?_

_Is this _bad_?_

Five minutes went by, and Monty placed the freshly seasoned chicken onto one of her best platters. She poured the remaining sauce on top of the meat and then garnished the meal with a sprig of parsley.

Slowly, she took a step back from the counter, letting her eyes analyze the plate carefully, checking for ugly spots and for errors.

It was beautiful. Just the smell of the chicken alone had her mouth watering. The capers and chicken stock breathed a hot, succulent aroma into the air; it was so flavorful, Monty could almost _taste_ it on her tongue. The saucy mixture had soaked across the bowel of the plate like syrup on a pancake, and in a sense it made Monty feel exactly the same.

Happy.

_No. This isn't bad. Family comes first. Look at this dish. Without that restaurant, there would be no cooking. I wouldn't know how to do any of this stuff. I have to protect the family. I have to do anything in order to preserve its legacy. Restore it to its former glory. Anything. And if that means groveling up to the richest man in Gotham, so be it._

Monty tilted her head, still studying the dish.

_He will love this._

_At least, he better._

* * *

The plate—covered in a layer of cling wrap—sat comfortably in the passenger seat of her Toyota Matrix, fitting snugly beside her purse and jacket. Hastily, Monty fastened her seatbelt and checked her mirrors—it was just reaching 5:45 PM, and she knew Mr. Pennyworth wouldn't appreciate a late delivery. The Palisades were just outside Gotham City's limit, if Monty could remember correctly, and her apartment was about a fifteen minute drive from that.

Six o'clock, on the dot, was what Monty was going for.

The underground parking garage was easy to maneuver out of, and soon, Monty's silver Matrix scooted along Gotham's avenues and parkways, heading west towards Wayne Manor. As she drove, Monty continued to contemplate her morals and her motives.

She remained determined to rescue _De Luca's_, despite the warring sides within her. If this was the only way, she would have to go through with it. It was her job as the next owner to take control, to be held responsible for the restaurant's fate.

But what kind of a person cheats someone out of their money?

_A cheat. Duh._

Monty wondered why her grandfather had condoned such behavior. He'd always been an incredibly ethical man, full to the brim of lessons and principles, eager to share them with anyone who wanted to listen. How could a man like him turn a blind eye to Monty's plan of extortion? Had he _really_ become so desperate? Of course Grandma Nancy would've chastised the family for such conduct… was that, perhaps, the reason for Grandpa Giorgio's outlandish decision?

Stopping at a red light, Monty stretched an hand into her purse and extracted her cell phone. She wasn't one for distracted driving, but Curtis was partly to blame for suggesting the idea to her. Perhaps he could provide a moral compass of sorts.

It rang a few times before someone picked up, and even then, Monty could've sworn she heard Mötley Crüe clamoring in the background.

She smiled a bit. _That's what I get for being best friends with a guy my dad's age._

"Hello?"

"_Uhm… hello?_"

"Curtis? It's me, Monty."

The music shut off.

"_Monty? Christ, sorry, I forgot you had this number._" He paused to cough, and Monty wondered if she'd interrupted one of his smoking sessions. After the restaurant explosion three months ago, Curtis had done just about everything to calm his nerves, and taking up cigarettes again was one of his methods. Monty couldn't get him to quit. "_You okay? What's up?_"

The red light turned green, and Monty urged the car forward. "I'm headed over to Wayne Manor as we speak with a plate of chicken piccata and a strange feeling that I'm about to make a big mistake. Any advice you can give me?" Biting her lip, she ran a hand through her hair. "This _was_ the money scheme you devised earlier."

She hadn't noticed him wheezing loudly, perhaps caught off guard. "_Y-You're not actually going through with that idea, are you? It was just an off-hand suggestion, Monty; I never meant for you to _do_ it!_"

Monty frowned. "I thought it was a good plan. Even Grandpa said—"

"_You told your grandpa? And he didn't tell you it was crazy? Jeez, Mont. Don't do it. Bruce Wayne is a powerful guy, and if he finds out you're only interested in his dough…_"

"Does that not, like, happen everyday to this guy, though?" Monty intervened sharply. "Of course women like him for his money. He's _used_ to it by now."

"_So how do you plan to stand out if this happens all the time? How are you getting the money creatively?_" His next pause was longer, and strangely without any rasping. "_You're… not… Monty, you're like a younger sister to me; I'm not letting him _touch_ you. Sex isn't the answer._ _Turn your car around now._"

Monty couldn't help but laugh. Was that what everyone thought? "No, Curtis. You know I don't roll like that! I had a better idea in mind… one that doesn't involve sins of the flesh."

He didn't sound at all convinced. "_Mont. He's a _guy_. I know how he thinks._"

"He's going through a midlife crisis! Locked himself away after that DA lady died, they say. He won't be interested in anything but talking. He'll want someone to rant to." Suddenly, it felt like there was glue stuck between her teeth. "I know that feeling. I was the same way when I moved here, when my life changed dramatically. When something big and nasty happens, you become a recluse, even when you wish you could scream your pain at the world. He must _need _someone to talk to."

"_And you don't think he rants to his butler? Isn't that what he's for?_"

Monty pursed her lips. "Honestly, no. Mr. Pennyworth probably knows what's going on and all, but he's like a father to Mr. Wayne. Brooding people tend to avoid parental figures and instead opt for ranting to others." She smirked. "I ranted to you, remember?"

She could almost hear Curtis smile back. "_Don't worry. I remember._" He sighed heavily. "_How close are you to the Palisades?_"

"Close." Monty turned onto a long paved road lined in trees instead of skyscraping buildings. "Well, technically I'm entering it now…"

"_No sense in you turning around, then. Look, Monty, be careful. If you need anything, call me or your parents. And if something goes wrong, you call the police. Wayne is sketchy, Mont. Been hiding for months. Be on your toes._"

She was lucky to have such a good friend. "Of course, Curtis. I promise."

"_Good. Be safe. Call this number again if you need me._"

"Will do." She glanced down the road, spotting the sumptuous Wayne Manor at the end of a cul-de-sac like street. It stood like a castle in the settling moonlight, foreboding an eventful night.

"_Bye, Monty._"

"Bye, Curtis."

She hung up and tossed the phone in her purse, just as the Matrix slipped quietly up the drive and to the front door of Wayne Manor, stopping with a gentle jerk and a silent hiss. After Monty put the car in park and removed her keys, she lowered the visor and did a quick check of herself in the mirror. Nothing had smudged; her eyeliner and faint eyeshadow still clung in place, and her pale cheeks still held a pink glow.

_Thank God. No touch-ups._

Unbuckling, she scooped the plate of chicken into her arm, carrying it close to her chest to keep it from spilling.

_Thank God for cling wrap!_

Her purse, she decided, would be better off in the car, but her phone… Monty hastily retrieved it and stuffed it into her back pocket for safekeeping.

_And thank the Lord for back pockets, too._

Her heels made loud clicks against the stone steps leading up to the manor door; each click echoed through the darkness and accentuated—if not exaggerated—her fears.

This was it.

The door was large and almost sinister, with a warm tint to match the outer walls of the mansion. Monty, now beneath the overhand, rapped her knuckles against the door's center panel, and waited.

She checked her watch.

Six o'clock.

The door opened.

* * *

**A/N: Next chapter, Bruce!**

**School starts the 20th for me, so expect rapid updates BEFORE then... it won't be so fast after.****  
**

**About the chicken piccata recipe... I'm actually making it tonight for my uncles! It's one of Giada's recipes (if you know who she is, you score a lot of points) and it can be found on the Food Network website!**

**And lots of love to my family, seriously. Just got back from a family reunion, and it made me realize that no matter how many friends you have, your family will always be the most important. They'll never leave you. They'll never abandon you! They care about you most in the world and will never replace you.**

**That's kind of the whole point of this story, too. Friends come and go. Family is what really matters.**

**Review please! I'd love to hear some feedback!**

**Love you all!**


	8. George

**Bat Appétit**  
A _Batman Begins/Dark Knight/Dark Knight Rises_ Fanfic by SouthernImagineer/ecto1B  
Chapter Eight - dedicated to my cousins, who took me to see the Bourne Legacy movie and agreed with me when I said it sucked!

* * *

"There is no love sincerer than the love of food." – George Bernard Shaw

"I brought the dinner you requested, Mr. Pennyworth." Monty flashed the man a friendly smile and stepped inside, joining him in the entryway. Her heart, no matter how hard she tried to silence it, was racing. Aching, Monty secured both hands on the plate to keep it from slipping; her grip was so tight, her knuckles began to whiten. Instinct told her to drop everything, to retreat back to her car and drive off, but Monty had other ideas. She curled her frame slightly inward, attempting to silence the pounding against her ribcage, and hoped the butler wouldn't notice. "I decided on a chicken piccata for Mr. Wayne, if that's all right," she said, a little more strained this time. "It's one of my best dishes."

Mr. Pennyworth motioned towards a nearby hallway. He led her through the dim entryway of the manor and towards, what Monty assumed, was the main kitchen.

The home smelled of candles and mothballs.

_Odd combo._

"Chicken piccata?" Mr. Pennyworth echoed, stepping through the kitchen doorway. He stopped beside the nearest counter and turned to face Monty. His hand absentmindedly reached into a drawer and extracted a fork and a knife as he spoke, setting them atop the plate she held. "I'm certain he'll love it. I've been feeding him soups and very basic meals—that's all he's asked for lately, anyway. He doesn't want much. Chicken will be good for him."

Monty quirked her head. She'd assumed he was merely in a developing stage of his midlife years, but Mr. Pennyworth made him sound quite ill. "Is he sick?"

"No, not sick." Sighing, he met her gaze. "Anguished, more like it. Stricken with grief. It's difficult to handle him lately. I rarely see him. The east wing is his safe haven, and he knows it. He never leaves."

As if disturbed by the new noise downstairs, there came the sound of footfalls, coming in uneven threes, scouring the wood floors upstairs. Both Monty and Alfred remained silent as the footsteps continued along the length of the manor, fading when a door shut and a song on a radio began to play.

"He has a cane," Alfred explained, seeing Monty's confused face.

"A cane? Did he hurt his leg?"

Monty noticed that Alfred refrained from answering her question.

"Maybe I should take that from you," he said out of the blue, his hands going for the plate.

Reflexively, Monty recoiled and removed the dish from his reach. "I thought I might bring it up to him. Show him a bit of De Luca hospitality. After all, this _is_ the first time I've made a delivery." When Alfred didn't answer, she added tentatively, "Would… that be all right?"

The butler's eyes changed to reflect an emotion Monty was scared to see: sorrow. "Why not?" His voice was softer now. "Maybe he'll be more welcoming to you than he has been to me lately." With another flick of his fingers, Alfred directed her to a flight of stairs beside the kitchen. "Up the stairs, through the doorway. There should be a large mahogany table in the center of the room you enter in. Place the plate there."

Gulping, the woman nodded. "And… should I wait for him there?"

"Yes. Master Bruce is expecting dinner. Might even be at the table already." He spoke quickly, startling Monty somewhat. "He'll think its me, at first, so don't be alarmed. Let him know who you are and what you've brought him. I can't guarantee he will be kind to a newcomer, but we'll see. He might surprise us." He tried a smile. "Now, off you go."

Like a sentinel, Alfred stood at the foot of the staircase and watched Monty ascend to the east wing. She felt his eyes on the back of her head all the way; only until she curved around the stairs and entered the landing did she hear the man disappear back into the kitchen.

Much unlike the first floor, the second floor was totally underlit and full of shadows, thanks to the eerie glow of the sun dipping outside (At least the first floor had _some_ light; this floor would've made a fantastic haunted house). In the distance, the radio still played, but the sounds of Alfred's master hobbling around were all but gone. The scent of mothballs was more prominent there, too; Alfred has most likely lit candles on the main floor to distract from the smell, but none had made their way upstairs.

Monty climbed the stairs with careful precision, her heels clicking all the way, and made sure not to drop the plate. The stairs _did_ lead to a spacious room with a single table at its center, and when she reached it, she was startled to see a human-like silhouette waiting in a nearby doorway.

He was posed against the doorframe, holding a long staff in his hand.

A shiver trickled down her spine, only worsening thanks to the fabric of her sweater.

She gulped.

Feeling as though a ghost was watching her, the woman gently set the plate on the table. Her eyes never left the figure, and when it spoke, she jumped.

"Who are you?"

It was a man's voice, gruff, riddled with supposed age and disuse, heavy like molasses atop the gloomy room's lone light. Like a growl, it sent more shivers down her spine and made her want to turn and run.

She didn't, though. Monty stood her ground, knowing very well who it was.

"Mr. Wayne," she addressed him, shaking. "I'm Monty. Monty De Luca." Swallowing thickly, she went on. "Alfred h-had me make you dinner. He thought you were in need of a ch-change in scenery." Light fingers unraveled the edges of the cling wrap, revealing the chicken piccata to the manor air and letting the meat's fresh fragrance carry. The fork and knife were placed beside the plate's edge. "Chicken piccata. An Italian dish. He s-said you'd like it."

Like a statue coming to life, the figure exited the darkness and limped to the center of the room. As the light touched his form, Monty refrained from gasping.

This wasn't the Bruce Wayne she remembered from magazines… Bruce Wayne was tall and handsome, with a laughing face, with bright eyes and framed cheeks…

Three months had taken a toll on the billionaire.

A significant toll.

_Already._

Out of the black came an unshaven, hollow face, narrowed eyes that stung with redness, and lips that never broke from a single line. Scruff dirtied his upper lip and chin; his hair, commonly combed back and styled, now drooped to a longer spot on his neck, sprouting like an untrimmed shrub from his scalp. A bathrobe draped like curtains across his sizeable torso, and slippers to match the blue fabric disguised his feet.

_Looks like Jesus, oddly enough. If Christ had been a hermit in a bathrobe._

She took a step back, and he approached the dinner. Now his attention diverted to the plate. His free hand went for the fork.

_Not the knife?_

"D-Do you need—" Monty began to offer her help, but he hastily interrupted her.

"_No_."

Monty watched in awe as Mr. Wayne turned the fork on its side and cut the smaller end of the chicken into an edible piece. He stabbed it, lifting it through the air and past the wooly walls around his lips.

He chewed once. Twice. Slow movements disguised any revelation of taste, any signal that the meal was satisfactory. The darkness hid his eyes from Monty's line of sight, obscuring her often-astute ability to gauge a customer's contentment.

After a moment, just as fluidly as he'd picked it up, Mr. Wayne put the fork back down.

"Thank you."

Monty remained frozen where she stood.

"What did you say your last name was?"

Swallowing, Monty forced an answer. "De Luca, sir."

"De Luca," Mr. Wayne repeated in a throaty murmur. "Your family owns the restaurant downtown."

"The damaged one, yes."

He looked at her, straight at her, for the first time since he'd appeared.

His torpid eyes were muted.

_Soft_.

"I heard about that. I'm sorry."

"Don't be. It wasn't your fault." She pressed her words along in an airy fashion, still struck by the realization that she was speaking with Bruce Wayne himself. And he was being _cordial_. "We'll manage. It's not like we can call Robert Irvine from _Restaurant Impossible_ to fix everything, but we'll manage."

He didn't respond. Monty wondered if she should leave… maybe she shouldn't have been so blatant in her intentions for the restaurant… maybe he'd figured her out…

"You made this."

It wasn't a question. He looked down at the plate on the table.

"Yes, sir." She dipped her head. "Chicken piccata."

His features seemed to harden. "Alfred had you bring this."

"Yes. He's eaten at _De Luca's_ before. I've made all his meals. He always enjoyed them, and he thought you'd enjoy one, too."

Mr. Wayne pursed his lips. His form still dangled from the support of his cane, but, like his face had, his frame stiffened.

"It's good."

Like being hit by a truck, Monty felt immeasurable weight slammed against her body and then rapidly removed. Her lungs exhaled a great amount of air, relieved. "I'm glad you like it, sir. Really—"

"_No_," he barked, making her jump again. Instantly, his volume decreased. Perhaps he hadn't meant to come off so harshly. "It's Bruce. Not sir. Just… Bruce."

"Bruce." Monty's eyes directed to the floor as she obeyed his command. "Okay. Bruce it is, then."

Was that a smile? Were the corners of his lips twitching? "And you… you said your name was Monty."

"Yes," she confirmed, shrugging. "And I know what you're going to say. It's a strange—"

"You don't have to leave yet."

Stopping mid-sentence, she glanced behind her. She hadn't noticed that he feet had carried her back towards the staircase.

"I'm just—"

"I haven't had visitors in months," he went on. _Man. He loves cutting across and interrupting me. _"Why don't you stay? Talk. Please?"

She didn't believe it when she heard it. A tone of begging, one of quiet desperation, had crept into the billionaire's smoky voice, requesting her company… seeking an ear to blather to.

He didn't even know her!

_Damn. This plan is easier than I thought._

He was acting like his playboy self; she knew. He wasn't rusty. This was probably the routine he knew well, the friendly celebrity he was used to playing on a day-to-day basis. Monty's arrival had perhaps altogether reawakened this need for conversation, a love of carousing through interesting topics and siphoning through the unique ones. The magazine articles and the newspaper clippings had all reasoned Bruce Wayne was a loquacious, open man with guests… who was to say he couldn't return to such amicability in such short notice?

"Erm… sure." Monty eased back into a genial manner, letting a smile of her own cross her lips. If things continued to play as they were, Monty surmised a quick check was just around the corner. "You have to eat, though." She stepped back into the round room and over to a spot against the wall, where two matching mahogany chairs collected dust. "I drove all this way…"

As she brought the chairs over, she caught him smiling again, weakly, but nonetheless displaying teeth.

"I won't let your visit be in vain, then, ma'am."

He lowered himself down onto the chair he was offered, and Monty noticed that his attention refocused onto the chicken dish.

She sat down across from him.

"Thank you… _Bruce_."

Seeing a man like Mr. Wayne sitting there, silverware in hand, peering down at a plate of food, had Monty recalling Jesus' image in the painting done by Da Vinci… The Last Supper… as if it were really happening. His facial hair, his eyes, all seemed to communicate a sense of piety, of divinity.

_Savior._

_He's going to save my restaurant._

And what was Monty?

A careful observer to something terribly odd.

Disrupting her thoughts, Mr. Wayne raised his fork and motioned to her from across the table.

"Thank _you_, Monty. For this dinner. Remind me to thank Alfred, as well."

At last, she grinned.

"Bon appétit."

* * *

De Luca. The woman was a De Luca. The second she'd said her name, Bruce had gotten a very graphic image of that night twenty years ago: his family, stowed away in a booth, feasting on top-notch Italian food and speaking with a lovely older woman named Nancy. Nancy De Luca… if Bruce wasn't mistaken, the lady had passed a few years ago, but he couldn't be too sure.

The very moment Monty De Luca left the house, Bruce staggered to find Alfred.

"She and her parents moved to Gotham just after Giorgio De Luca's wife died," the butler explained to an exhausted Bruce (he hadn't moved that fast in three months, and his leg ached from the strain). "Roughly seventeen years ago. The family has owned that restaurant since just before World War Two, I believe. Mighty important to them."

Bruce, with his free hand, rubbed the bridge of his nose. "And how'd you stumble upon her again?"

"During the 'day off' you so generously gave me, Master Bruce." There was a familiar twinkle in Alfred's eye, but his lips did nothing to smile. "I paid the restaurant a visit, sat down, and was waited on by a sprightly young woman with a knack for cooking and a severe interest in you."

"Me?"

"In your business, at least," Alfred corrected. "She's a hardworking woman. Before _De Luca's_ was damaged, I believe she held two jobs. The business world fascinates her. So I stopped by every now and then to have lunch and to chat with Monty."

Pursing his lips, Bruce made a quiet "hmm" sound. "Hardworking, you say?"

"Extremely."

"The restaurant was sabotaged?"

Alfred danced lightly around the topic. "The newspaper… said that one of the Joker's many explosions devastated the building and killed some patrons inside. Perhaps the De Luca family lacks the funds to repair the restaurant. I don't believe they've reopened since."

Bruce knew very well what explosion had caused the destruction, but he quickly hastened away from the source and jumped to another. He was not about to let grief clog his mind again. "I asked her to bring over another meal next week, same day, if that's all right." He paused to worry his lip. "It was interesting speaking with her, and…" –now, Bruce smirked— "… the food was fantastic."

It was Alfred's turn to finally smile. "She's a marvelous cook."

Nodding, Bruce began hobbling away. He was tired, and the nighttime now signaled for him to sleep, rather than don a Kevlar suit and scurry about rooftops.

"Anyway. Goodnight, Alfred. Thank you… for sending her." Momentarily, his eyes met the nearby window, peeking into the dark. "She helped."

The older gentleman dipped his head, obviously satisfied.

"Goodnight, Master Bruce."

* * *

**A/N: Oh! Mentioned it earlier. Just a head's up that this turned into a Bruce/OC/John Blake story. Officer Blake will be appearing later in the story. Thought I should warn you!**

**Please review? I love feedback and I take constructive ****criticism!**


	9. Albert

**Bat Appétit**  
A _Batman Begins/Dark Knight/Dark Knight Rises_ Fanfic by SouthernImagineer/ecto1B  
Chapter Nine - dedicated to my good friend Katie, who tolerated me when I showed her my Joseph Gordon-Levitt inspired binder cover.

* * *

"In everyone's life, at some time, our inner fire goes out. It is then burst into flame by an encounter with another human being. We should all be thankful for those people who rekindle the inner spirit." – Albert Schweitzer

Just as she'd promised a week before, Monty De Luca reappeared at the Wayne Manor, this time—instead of chicken piccata—bringing a steaming bowl of rigatoni for Bruce to sink his teeth into. And he did, in fact, devour the entire bowl in just under a half an hour—all the while venting his frustrations to the woman seated nearby. She didn't seem to care that he went out on so many limbs and changed topics without warning; she didn't complain when he raised his voice, or when he became so wrought with emotion that he excused himself from the room. Monty simply sat there, attentive, affable, altogether courteous to the frenzied troglodyte's sermons, occasionally nodding her head when he directed a question her way.

"And politics these days…" When one of Bruce's speeches began this way, he noticed Monty tilt her head, eager to hear his views on the current situation. "It's a nightmare, I tell you. No one can run for office without having the media peel the very skin from their backs. I _know_ what it's like to have cameras breathing down your neck every instant, and I don't think it's right for these fools to treat politicians like celebrities! The guy has a bit of power for a while, does his best to improve the current conditions, and suddenly we scrutinize him as if we know him personally, as if we know what kind of burden the guy carries." Out of the corner of his eye, Bruce noticed Monty dip her head in agreement. He carried on, gripping the back of the chair and looking straight at her. "I mean, so what if the guy made a few mistakes growing up? He learned from them, didn't he?"

This conversation veered off into one about celebrities, and the different classifications Bruce gave them. All in all, it was an uninteresting fumble of words; even Bruce knew his choice of topics were banal and incredibly dull.

And yet, she stayed.

Perhaps it was a blind move on his part. Perhaps he acted too quickly, acted irrationally. Perhaps his decision was a weak one, spurred on by impulse.

But it was decided.

Monty would visit the manor every week until further notice.

"Was that what you intended me to do, Alfred?" Bruce asked his butler one night as the two friends watched Monty's car fade into the distance. She'd visited a total of three weeks then, and already Bruce felt himself growing attached to her presence. "Did you intend for me to enjoy her company? To require I borrow her ear for an hour or two and completely drill it into the ground with my rants?"

At this, the older man merely chuckled.

"Now, why would I do that, Master Bruce?"

Bruce squeezed the handle of his cane, also managing a small smile. "Whatever you did, it worked. She brings good food, and she just sits there, listening." He tilted his head, now pursing his lips and narrowing his eyes at the window. "I wonder what made her agree to it… agree to _everything_."

Alfred gave him a look. "She likes to cook. She hasn't been able to cook since _De Luca's_ was ruined. That could be why."

"She gains nothing from doing this, Alfred," Bruce replied, "and we know for a fact that everyone has a motive." His eyes trained on the headlights in the distance. "So what is hers?"

"Your guess is as good as mine, Master Bruce. She's got a good head on her shoulders, though." Alfred spoke with affirmation. "I'd rule out anything shady."

"I want her to gain something, though," the billionaire said abruptly. "Her restaurant. It's in disrepair." He worried his lip. "Maybe the Wayne Foundation should start making anonymous donations." When Alfred flashed him a mild look of astonishment, Bruce continued. "Just because I choose to lock myself away in here doesn't mean I can't do _something_ to help her. She _is_ the one voluntarily sitting in on my tirades."

The butler suddenly began to smile. "I think that's a wonderful idea, Master Bruce. A wonderful idea. I think she'd be very pleased."

"Call Lucius in the morning," Bruce said quickly. "Anonymous donations. Small amounts at first. Progressive. We don't want to overwhelm them."

"Of course." Alfred dipped his head, watching Bruce hobble across the entryway and to the staircase. "Will that be all for tonight, Master Bruce?"

Pausing at the railing, the dark-haired man pivoted his head back around. His facial hair had grown thicker, bushier, and it cast a shadow along his weakened frame.

"I'm good, Alfred. Thank you."

Two synchronized nods, and the pair dispersed to their designated quarters, leaving the home's entryway to bask in the moon's pensive glow.

* * *

"How is he?"

"Loud. Emotional." Monty reclined on the couch, staring across the room at her father. "I can definitely see his temper. Almost pains me to watch him speak." Gently, she rested her elbows on her knees, making frantic hand motions to go along with her words. "He just… goes on forever, you know? At some points, you can see all this hatred in his face, all of these hard grooves behind his beard. His lips curl, his eyes darken…" A shudder ran through her. "Books are always describing anger by saying a character just _falls_. Every primal emotion is shown in one vehement second and you can see every little detail of their face…" Here, she paused, becoming wrapped up in her words. "But you never see it in real life. You never see that animosity in a real person. But I have." She wagged a finger. "I've seen it in him. Mania. Absolute mania. His eyes actually get thicker and turn a darker shade." Another shudder ran through her, and hastily she snatched the nearest pillow and placed it on her lap. "It's… bizarre."

Lillian, who was seated on a leather chair nearby, lowered the cup of coffee from her lips. "Are you scared of him?"

Monty's response was tentative, softer than her previous words. "Yes… and no. He has rage, definitely, and you see it building beneath him, and when he lets it go, he just fizzes out." Now her gaze carried to a blank spot of wall beside her father. "But I know the fury isn't directed at me. It's not me he's mad at. It's… other things. Normal things. Day-to-day occurrences that just send him up the wall. So not really… I'm not very afraid of him. He won't hurt me."

Coughing, Lillian tilted her head. "So he has a conscience," she said briskly. "That's what you're implying here, isn't it? The man fit enough to scream at you has an inner voice of reason. Morals, values."

She sounded cynical, almost hurtfully so.

"Mom." Monty began her usual routine of reasoning with her mother. "In fact, he does. You should hear him sometimes. I've seen him cry. He's not a monster, he's—"

"Cry?" At last, Philip entered the conversation. "Jesus, Monty. You've been over there three times and you're already making him cry?"

Monty wasn't sure if her father was joking or not. "He was talking about Rachel Dawes, Dad. I didn't make him cry. She's the woman that was dating Harvey Dent."

"But that's the woman in…" Philip tried, hesitating.

"The explosion," Monty finished. "Yeah, Dad." Biting her lip, Monty looked down. "Bruce was in love with her, and she died. He misses her a lot. Somehow, last time, he brought her up. He told me a story about when the two of them were little kids. They were playing in the gardens, and he fell down a well."

"And that was enough to make a grown man cry?"

She sucked in a breath. "Yes, Mom. I watched a grown man cry. I think we've established that."

"Anyway." Philip waved off his wife and returned to his daughter, changing the subject. "You say the anonymous donation was from him?"

"Who else would donate to us? Who else knows our current situation? Yes, Dad. I believe he's the donor." She shrugged. "My plan is working. Maybe he'll donate more soon, once I've spent more time with him."

Glancing down at the check in his hands, Philip sighed. Monty studied his eyes as he did so, watching as they scoured the piece of paper, as if it didn't exist.

"Well," he said finally, exhaling again. "You do what you feel is right, Monty. We will support you one hundred percent."

She gave the slightest of nods.

"Thanks, Dad."

Inwardly, Monty felt her stomach drop.

_I can do this._

She pursed her lips.

_It's all for the restaurant._

* * *

An entire year passed, drumming like a monotone beat in the ears of all Gothamites. Officially, on the first anniversary of Harvey Dent's death, it became known that the Batman had gone into hiding. One year after he'd last shown his face, one year after the city condemned his behaviors, and one year after his name became mud to all Gotham inhabitants. No one truly minded; they'd denounced the Dark Knight after his supposed killing spree, and not a soul seemed to care that he'd vanished.

It wasn't as if the city was incapable without him. The Dent Act began to show its true colors during this time, giving the GCPD a tighter grasp on criminal activity and those conspiring. Even without the Batman, crime rates trickled lower and lower, thanks to a new severity to oncoming police officers and a stringent limitation of distributing parole to criminals at Blackgate.

A more peaceful version of Gotham City emerged.

Happier tones descended everywhere among the bustling metropolis. With each passing month came a new donation to _De Luca's_, and a new bout of repairs and remodels. Business started up again, and the De Luca family—along with their many faithful employees—went back to work.

Even Curtis joined in the revelry.

"This is great, Monty. Really, it is. Crime rates are down, the restaurant's up and running, and the big dumb bat hasn't reared his ugly face in an entire year!" Almost too enthusiastically, he shook her shoulders, causing her to add too much salt to the dish in front of her. She groaned and tried to fix it as he went on. "I swear this has got to be thanks to that idea of mine. Visiting Bruce Wayne, getting his money… genius! A genius idea! And look what it's done for us!" He motioned around the kitchen, pointing out new appliances. "All it took was a year, and look!"

Monty rolled her eyes. "Weren't you the one who told me the idea was a joke, and that I was crazy for pursuing it?"

Either he hadn't heard her, or he just chose to ignore her. "Are you still regularly visiting ol' Brucey up in his mansion?"

"As a matter of fact, I am!" Monty stopped what she was doing and faced her friend. "I like him, and he seems to like me."

"Is it you that he likes, or is it the food?"

Hastily snatching a nearby stack of napkins, Monty slapped him, grinning.

"Both. He's a good guy, Curtis. I'm enjoying my time with him."

"And… the money will keep on coming, so long as you stay friends with him."

"Exactly."

"Will you ever tell him?"

Monty froze. "T-Tell him what?"

"That this was all for the money," Curtis responded calmly. "You know, that the friendship was only initiated because he's wealthy."

She couldn't believe her ears. She narrowed her eyes and placed a hand on her waist. "Look, Curtis. What he doesn't know won't kill him. I'm doing this for my family, remember? To repair the damages done to our way of life. Basic stuff! If he hasn't figured it out by now…" She shrugged, turning back around. "Then maybe he doesn't deserve to know."

Monty heard him sigh behind her. "You dig that hole and keep on digging until you can't dig any more," Curtis said, almost prophetically, his blue eyes thoughtful, "but don't expect there to be any ladder to climb out of it when he finds out. Escaping the hole will be your job, and you may not walk out of that with a friend…"

"You don't have to go all Yoda on me, Curt. I get it." Nodding, she shrugged again. "I won't 'count my chickens before they hatch,' okay?"

Smirking, he patted her head and walked back to his station nearby.

"Good."

* * *

**A/N: Shorter chapter today! (Sorry AxMxzainyzfan, I know your constructive criticism was for chapters to be longer... hehe!) I promise, though, things will be ****getting really good soon... I've already plotted out chapters 10-15, and we have some SMUT coming up in the near future! So kiddies, hold onto your hats!**

**I'll say it again, this story WILL become a Mature story... JUST because it really needs it. ****Is it Monty/Bruce smut? We'll see...**

**And don't worry John Blake fans! The handsome police officer will be joining us around chapter 15!**

**Review, if you'd like! It'd make me smile :)**

**Oh! Anyone know a good song that fits this story? I need a bit of help...**


	10. Audrey

**Bat Appétit**  
A _Batman Begins/Dark Knight/Dark Knight Rises_ Fanfic by SouthernImagineer/ecto1B  
Chapter Ten - dedicated to E.S. Posthumus, the musical sensation that makes mundane tasks seem extremely crucial to the fate of the world.

* * *

"I never understood why Clark Kent was so hell bent on keeping Lois Lane in the dark." – Audrey Niffenegger

It took another year before Bruce let it slip. Naturally, it had come at a moment of great weakness, at a point when Bruce felt raw with sentiment and just as bare as his own bones. He had grown so used to Monty De Luca's company over the long two years, he, just reaching thirty-two, and she, settling into twenty-nine. Both persons had long since rid themselves of any inhibited instincts, and were competent enough to uncover themselves in manners fit for the other's understanding. Things had progressed enough for Bruce to do some of the listening; Monty had her fair share of qualms with the world, and she never thought twice about telling Bruce her woes.

Like evenly distributed weight on a scale, the billionaire and the chef took turns fulminating.

Bruce wondered if this regal affinity was to blame for what happened.

* * *

"You look nice."

Monty flinched a bit, turning around and giving the man an amused look. She'd been quick to detect his humor and disbelief. "I was at a party, okay?" Grinning, the woman set the plate of linguine before him. "I left early so I could bring you this. Linguine with shrimp and lemon oil." She kissed her fingertips dramatically, stepping back. "My grandfather's favorite dish! Bon appétit!"

He echoed a toned down version of her smile and let his eyes graze across his friend. Much unlike what she usually wore to visit, Monty now donned a simple black dress and a pair of sparkling earrings (she'd left her pumps at the door, complaining about how many blisters she'd acquired over the past few hours). Though he'd seen her in many forms, Bruce thought she looked quite lovely that night. "We've just reached the two year mark, and you've still got it in you. I don't know how you do it, Monty. The meal looks wonderful."

Like an actress graced with an Oscar, the woman brushed her shoulders and pretended to hold the golden statue in her hand. "Oh, thank you, thank you, you're simply too kind!"

Now Bruce was chuckling. He took a bite of the food, chewing it methodically and letting his taste buds soak in the flavor. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her pause, studying him, waiting for the habitual compliment he always gave her.

Bruce didn't disappoint.

"Fantastic, Monty. As _usual_. Thank you."

As was customary for the two friends, the next few hours were drenched in animated discussion, complete with hand motions, fluent gestures, and strong voices. Tonight was Monty's turn to ramble aimlessly, and she brought up a topic Bruce wasn't too fond of hearing…

"Honestly. Honestly, though." Bruce watched as she paced beside the table, her bare feet padding across the floor. It made for a comical display; a short blonde woman, barefoot, treading back and forth in a classy black dress, prattling haphazardly about the Batman as if she knew him personally (and, ironically, she did). "I always had faith in that guy. Always. When he first showed up, I was thrilled, you know. I loved that sense of fiction in his existence, the secure feeling I got when walking around the city, knowing he was there somewhere, protecting us. And when they said he'd killed a bunch of guys, and then bumped off Dent…" Perhaps she'd noticed Bruce's face fall, for she lowered her voice and stopped pacing. "I didn't believe it. The Batman was _not_ too good to be true, and I had every right to believe he would come back. I mean, dammit, I thought—" Here, she paused completely, facing Bruce. Significance soared with her words, no matter how quiet they were; Bruce was almost taken aback by this. "—I thought that maybe… maybe the city mattered to him. Maybe we meant something to him."

Bruce felt his body go numb. "Of course he cares about Gotham. Why else would he do all the things he did? Risk his life so many times?"

"You see, that's what I don't get about him. If he cared so much, why go into hiding? Why save himself when the city needs saving?" She stepped deeper into the room, motioning wildly. "He spends all this time fighting crime, being the good guy, and the second his name is blackened, he vanishes like a dog with its tail between its legs. What kind of hero does that?"

Again, the man shuddered as a surge of annoyance rocketed through him. He restrained his urge to yell, and instead tried channeling his energy elsewhere by squeezing the handle of his cane. "The police are after him. It doesn't do him much good if those he's trying to help want him dead, too."

"If he _stands_ for good, why would he run?" Monty asked, turning to look at him once more. Bruce, at first, mistook the look in her eyes as ferocity, a look that enraged him. "If the whole point of Batman is to stand up for what's right, even when things are wrong, doesn't the whole 'hiding out' thing completely negate Batman himself? It's stupid. That's what it is, stupid. I mean, I love the guy for what he used to do, but now… now I keep thinking he's got a screw loose."

Bruce could feel his insides churning with every word.

"It's stupid of him to abandon the city like that. No matter what shit went down. No matter what he thinks. He gave Gotham a symbol of hope, and then suddenly demolished it. That's harsh and totally unfair."

He thought he asked her to stop. He thought he'd spoken the words, thought he'd narrowed his eyes angrily at her and demanded she quit talking. He swore he'd heard himself ask her to leave…

"I wonder if he'll _ever _come back." Monty carried on, not noticing how bunched Bruce's face had become. "I wonder if he even cares that there might be some places that still need him, people that still need his help—"

Everything happened so fast. One minute, Bruce was seated in the wooden chair, gripping his staff, and the next, strength had appeared in his legs and he was standing, leaning on the table, unintentionally channeling the Dark Knight's throaty growl, bellowing a warning to the blonde woman there. When he stood, his chair tipped over, producing a loud crack against the floor; the entire room froze into a frightening, dismal limbo where no one but Bruce moved a muscle.

"_The Batman is never coming back_," he snarled, his voice thundering. "_The Batman doesn't exist any more._"

Monty's face crumbled.

"Oh my God. Y-You're…"

Bruce watched the woman piece everything together. He could see it in the way her eyes crossed in contemplation, her lips pressed into an almost invisible line…

_Shit_.

Quickly (or as fast as a man with an injured leg could), Bruce hurried to pick the chair from the ground and sit back down. He hung his head in silence, hiding himself from her gaze, and briefly he hoped she wouldn't get it. Monty was smart, he knew, but maybe his outburst translated into something else—

"You're… him."

_Double shit._

"I can't… b-believe… I didn't see it before. You both h-have been gone for the same amount of… time." Her hands flew to the sides of her face, pressing inward until her lips pursed like a cartoon fish. Her next words, because of this oddly shaped face, were mashed together awkwardly. "_YouaretheBatman. Holyshit_." Now, her hands went to cup over her mouth. "And… I said… all of that. God, Bruce, I'm so—"

"Sorry," he finished for her, his words hollow. "I know you are."

"Then—"

"Now you know why I haven't left this house. Now you know why the Batman turned his back on what he stood for. First, I lost Rachel." The words choked from his throat. "Then, all of Gotham wanted the Batman arrested. I couldn't…"

He heard Monty pad over to him and begin to rub his shoulders.

"I get it," she murmured. "Jesus. I've been talking to the goddamn Batman for two years. A friggin' superhero… I'm so sorry. I must've insulted the hell out of you. Forgive me?"

Bruce looked up at her.

"No, no. I forgive you. I just hope you understand… why I did what I did. Why I haven't come out of hiding. Why I choose this for myself."

When she nodded, he went on. "I never meant to translate into a coward. I just couldn't take the burden any longer. I didn't think anyone needed me. The Dent Act—"

"Did you kill Harvey Dent?"

Widening his eyes, Bruce continued to stare up at her.

Her question was valid.

"No. He brought about his own death. He was… about to kill Jim Gordon's son…"

Monty tilted her head. "But you didn't kill him," she summarized. "And he killed those cops, then, too. You didn't."

He dipped his head.

"I don't kill."

"And your injuries are _not_ from heliskiing, like you told me."

"No."

"Fighting crime, then. Beating up baddies."

"Yes."

Content with his answers, she exhaled. "So Gotham is after you for no apparent reason, then, and Harvey Dent is being held as a hero in your place. Wonderful. And it makes me look like a complete idiot now for saying all that stuff before." Her eyebrows curled downward. "I'm sorry for that, I didn't know. I always did have faith in the Batman, and you must think I never did…"

"You have nothing to be sorry about, Monty." His free hand curved across his chest and tapped her hand, which still sat atop his shoulder. "Nothing to be sorry about. Now." Slower than before, he stood. "I hate to ask you to leave, but—"

"No no, I understand, Bruce." She smiled warmly. "Rough night. You need rest." She removed her hands from his bathrobe, stepping back. "Wow. Can't get over the fact that… you're him." Shaking her head, Monty continued. "Anyway. Stay up here, head straight to bed. Alfred can show me out."

"Same time next week," he rasped. "I still enjoy your company, after two years."

"Same time next week," she repeated, smirking. "And I won't tell anyone, Bruce. My lips are sealed." She slid two fingers across her lips and threw the 'key' over her shoulder. "I promise."

"Monty?"

"Yes?"

He shut his eyes. "Thank you."

"For what?"

Bruce thought it was obvious. "For believing in the Batman. Back when he existed. I really—" he paused, swallowing, "_he_… really appreciates that."

Monty's response was slow—slower than what Bruce had expected. At first, she took a few steps toward him, fidgeting with her left earring as she walked, and once she'd reached him, her arms immediately pulled him close. The cordial embrace was simple, yet demonstrative, and Bruce could do nothing but hug her back.

"Well," she began in his ear, "you be sure to let him know I never stopped."

"Never stopped?" Bruce echoed, confused.

She pulled away a bit to look at him.

"I never stopped believing in the Batman. In fact, I still do!" Giggling, Monty released him and started for the door. "Get some sleep, eh? I'll be back next week with enough pizza for all of us! I'm sure Alfred won't mind." With a wink, she slipped out the door and down the staircase. "Bye, Bruce!"

His cane thumped against the ground as he limped to the balcony, peering down.

"Bye, Monty."

She knew. At last, his two year long companion knew the truth behind his reclusion, knew why his body was so broken, knew the madness behind the man.

It was like a huge weight being heaved from his chest, knowing she knew.

He was pleased.

* * *

**A/N: Another short one, but for good reason! The next chapter, ladies and gents, will be the smut chapter.**

**Yupp! So be prepared for this to change to M. And no, I will not be writing EVERYTHING. I'm setting it as M because of what I WILL write. Pieces will be implied.**

**And I think someone mentioned something about seeing Monty/John somewhere in here... (evil laugh)... you wait and see, eh? Hang around a bit. I promise, once we hit TDKR, things will get pretty interesting! Right now, this story is mainly leading us up to a main plot... Mr. Handsome Cop will show his face soon, I promise! He's pretty important to my idea of TDKR!**

**Still wondering about a good song to fit this story. I love "Burn It Down" by Linkin Park... got any ideas, anyone?**

**Thanks for reading!**


	11. Robert

**Bat Appétit**  
A _Batman Begins/Dark Knight/Dark Knight Rises_ Fanfic by SouthernImagineer/ecto1B  
Chapter Eleven - dedicated to Pewdiepie on YouTube. BROFIST.

* * *

**Mild sexual/implied themes below! Take heed, traveler!**

"Anybody who believes that the way to a man's heart is through his stomach flunked geography." – Robert Byrne

Almost fifty thousand dollars had been donated to _De Luca's_ over those long five years. The anonymous donor—who insisted on remaining nameless, even thought the entire De Luca family knew his identity—continued contributing small monetary amounts to the restaurant without saying so much as a word, and the public, pleasantly surprised, maintained regular visits to the little _trattoria._ On weekdays, the restaurant received decent amounts of guests, taking into account that their busiest days happened to be weekends. With that in mind, more effort was placed into Saturdays and Sundays, enabling _De Luca's_ to grow in an unprecedented manner. Never before had it seen such profits. Never, in its many years of service, had it gained such intense popularity.

And for that moment, everything was great.

Monty visited the manor twice a week now, still bringing along meals for Bruce (and Alfred, when he asked) to try. Her visits were longer, delving deep into the late hours of night, while conversations now often included the butler, too. Like three sociable friends, they sat around the mahogany table, deliberating historic events, telling stories, and occasionally cracking a dry joke or two.

Bruce used this time to remain communicative and buff up on his people skills, even while he locked himself away from the public and never dared to step foot outside. Speaking openly to Alfred and Monty was a release of sorts, and he enjoyed every second of it. He would've been pleased to remain like this up until his elder years.

Alfred entered the conversations simply because he missed the fatherly bond he'd once had with Bruce. Over the years, it had deteriorated, and now, he had a chance to mend that bond. It made the older man happy, content in his decision to invite Monty in the first place, and proud to know Thomas and Martha would also be pleased that the two were reconnecting.

Monty, though still galvanized by the restaurant and family behind her, had begun questioning her motives, wondering just how she could continue deceiving Bruce like that. She loved their lengthy dialogue, loved being with him and discovering new, wonderful things about the man behind Batman, but a fear, set thick and leaden in her stomach, drove her to doubt everything.

It made her uneasy.

Curtis had become even more of a burden, now that the years had gone by. He was older, seemingly wiser, and more aware of his surroundings. His casual, offhand question of "When are you telling him the truth?" had transformed into prolonged tongue-lashings, scolding the woman and giving her reasons for backing out.

"You have to tell him someday. Someday soon. As soon as possible. You're almost to China now, Monty, with that hole you're digging! How long will it take you to realize you've extorted the guy enough?"

Monty reasoned that she'd never asked Bruce for money, not once in the five years they'd been friends. If he wanted to help _De Luca's_ grow, that was his choice. She only sought a presence in his life, a friendship to establish a connection "for the sake of the family."

"Monty, it's been five years. Enough with it. End it now."

"You're acting like my father, Curtis!" she had countered. "And besides, it was your idea in the first place! This is happening because you put that idea in my head!"

"Are you not at all ashamed for taking his money?"

"I never took a damn cent from that man, Curtis, and I didn't ask him for any, either. He chose to give us donations. He chose to help."

"Only because you showed up! Only because you've got him wrapped around your finger!"

"That isn't true, and you know it."

"How much do you wanna bet he's in love with you?"

"… Curtis."

"I'm serious! A guy like him can't spend five whole years with a woman and not develop _some_ feelings for her! How much do you wanna bet?"

Needless to say, Monty excused herself from work early that day, furious with herself for not lashing back with something intelligent.

Was it true?

Five years. Five years, and nothing but friendship had formed?

Did… Monty have feelings for him?

No. Impossible. This was a friendship. She cared about the guy because he'd told so many stories and opened up so well. All the stuff about Batman, about losing his parents… that was why she cared. And it wasn't all about the money, either. It was because Monty had needed someone, other than Curtis, to talk to.

That was it.

Right?

* * *

Neither of them noticed Alfred excuse himself from the room. The issue was sensitive; clearly the butler had no desire to play arbiter when he could relate to Bruce's proclamations, or perhaps it was the time of day that made him depart to the first floor. The clocks in the manor read eleven-thirty. Was that to blame?

Either way, Bruce and Monty went at each other like wild dogs (a comparison that, in this case, fit the pacing blonde female and the livid, crippled man to a T).

"The whole idea of love is moving on, Bruce." Monty was proficient in parrying the billionaire's attacks, and she showed this talent in the argument she presented. "A person's memory is well-preserved. You can't let them continue to haunt you. Moving on puts them to rest." Her voice, rich in vigor, echoed throughout the room. "Holding onto someone's memory and grieving for them—at first—is healthy, but as the days and months go by, and you just start wallowing in pain… now, that isn't healthy, Bruce."

"Preserving their memory is a way to keep them alive," he replied hotly. "Doing monumental things in their honor, changing up your own life so you can better represent theirs, is noble. Yes, they're gone, but that doesn't mean you can't hold onto them forever."

"_Changing your own life_. What, like you've done? You've sat here in this manor for five straight years, not letting the public see you, doing your best to tune out the news and the real world… what, in _her _honor?"

Bruce felt a surge of heated emotions, mixed emotions, fill him. At once, he stood up, lurching around the table with his cane to meet Monty where she stood in the room.

"I mourn her, Monty. I miss her. I love her. I've done a staggering thing for her sake. I retired the Batman." They were face-to-face, eye-to-eye, gazes sparking like daggers. "For her sake, I gave up a piece of myself to make her happy. That's love."

Monty looked as though she couldn't believe him. "Do you think she'd want you turning into a hermit, incarcerating yourself in a cell you built for yourself?" Here, she paused and lowered her voice. "Or would she want you to move on? Find someone else, have the life you had and prove to her that you can be happy…?"

If Bruce detected the hint of pain that gleamed across her face, he paid it no mind. He continued to stare directly at her, not noticing that his nose almost touched hers. "I choose to appreciate her life in the way I see fit. I gave up Batman for her sake. If you have a problem with that—"

The argument had faded. Monty responded as a concerned friend. Her soft words spouted from behind her lips at a rapid pace.

"I never meant to—"

"You meant what you said." His words darker, Bruce tried to cut her off as she had him. "I understand—"

She returned the favor. "I wasn't questioning your—"

"You were." He shook his head. "You don't have to deny—"

"Bruce—"

He hated fighting, hated saying words that damaged her. She had become so valuable to him over the five years they'd been friends. Even when he'd spurned her, asked her to leave, Monty had stayed and comforted him. She knew he was the Batman; she knew Bruce Wayne inside and out. Conversation after conversation, squabble after squabble, joke after joke.

The one thing he really loved about Monty De Luca was that she didn't care. Rachel had disliked how Bruce held two faces. She'd asked him to choose between the two. Batman, or Bruce. Not both.

Monty, on the other hand, never wanted him to change.

It was for that reason Bruce decided to end their dispute, right then and there.

He acted on impulse.

Because of his leg, and because of the overall state his body was in, his movements were neither swift nor subtle. Interrupting Monty from trying to apologize once more, Bruce raised his free hand—the one not clutching his staff for dear life—and brought it to her cheek.

He heard her breath promptly hitch and silence.

That was enough for him.

As if being dragged forward by a string, Bruce steadily tugged his face through the air and placed his lips on hers. Wincing, he mentally scolded himself for not shaving beforehand. She probably disliked the scruff that tickled her chin and cheeks as he kissed her, but if she had any complaints, they were not voiced. Only sounds of happiness reached his ears—sounds that had only seconds ago been muffled screeches of shock.

Monty was quick to secure her arms around his shoulders and kiss back. Subconsciously, Bruce could feel her hand rubbing the back of his neck, sliding up to lace in his hair. Though this added pressure on his body stung, it was easily ignored. He could do this. He could fight the pain brought about by such an enjoyable occasion.

At last, he was kissing Monty De Luca.

With lips conjoined without any sense of letup, with fingers grasping, searching, with shaky sounds resonating through the second floor, Bruce Wayne stumbled to help the young woman further into the east wing. He tried holding his cane to keep him steady, but suddenly, it was as if Monty had become the support. She held him up, bracing him in a manner that pleased him.

He didn't know how well he'd hold up in bed with his injuries, but he trusted her enough to make do.

It was then that the billionaire realized his bathrobe had fallen to the floor. Wide-eyed, Bruce pulled away long enough to see her hands scouring his chest, culprits to the disrobing. He smirked.

"Anxious?"

Monty replied with another heated kiss.

"Thought so," he mumbled.

Though he kissed back just as fiercely, Monty seemed to be the one taking charge. Her many stories had gleamed of a fling-filled life, one without many necessary commitment or faith—a fact that stunned Bruce somewhat. He did recall Monty mentioning her last boyfriend and their involvement through college… nowhere had there been allusion to a significant other in Gotham afterwards.

Was this to blame for her dominance?

"Am I hurting you?" She pulled away abruptly, and Bruce noticed where they were; the doorway to his bedroom was only a few feet away.

He tilted his head. "N-No… why?"

"You winced."

Bruce hadn't noticed.

"Just… go easy on me, Mont'. I'm not as… chipper as I used to be." His words were sullen, but his eyes teasing, and she detected the deception right away.

"It's been a while for me, too," the blonde woman smiled, "but we can manage. I'll be gentle. I promise." Gingerly, her hands rubbed the spot just below his shoulders, kneading the skin there and making him moan. "Nothing crazy for us until you get better."

Limping, Bruce took the woman's hand and led her to the bedroom, only once flashing a harsh grimace as his leg screamed with pain.

"Let me help you." Tender hands helped him onto one side of the bed. "We'll take it slow, Batman. For your sake."

He almost missed the name. "I'm not Batman any longer," he grumbled, watching her undress. She paused, giving the man a moment to study her partially unclad form.

_Damn. It really has been too long since I did this._

"I'm still going to bed with a superhero, former or not," Monty said matter-of-factly, tossing her clothes onto the floor and crawling over to him. "That okay with you, Brucey?"

"Yes." Sitting up, Bruce tugged her down to the pillows with him, planting an intense kiss at the base of her throat. "And… there wasn't really a choice, anyway."

* * *

"Master Wayne?"

The knock and the loud pounding at the door startled her. Quickly, Monty hurried to pull the covers over her and Bruce, hiding their bare bodies.

The door pushed open, regardless.

"Master Wayne, why is Miss De Luca's car still—" Alfred, in the middle of his sentence, froze in the doorway, eyes wide. He was carrying a long silver tray in his hands; Monty was surprised he didn't drop it.

She could feel her cheeks burning. "H-Hi, Alfred." One hand exited its spot from behind the blankets and offered him a wave. "We were… um…"

The smile that grew on the old man's face was one of pure joy. "No, no, it's fine, Miss De Luca." He winked. "Thank you. He really needed that. Was he too much trouble?"

Conveniently, Bruce, who was still fast asleep, suddenly rolled over, mumbling. He stretched his arm and secured it around Monty's bare middle, pulling her form closer to his.

"A lot of his groans were actually groans of pain, so yeah, it was difficult." She smirked and patted his head. It _had_ been complicated, romping around with a cripple (once during the night, she'd called him that under her breath… he'd responded with a kiss, as usual). Movements had to be premeditated and calculated, and any and all sounds had to be taken into severe account. Because of this, the night lasted a good hour, and then the two were happily spooning, grins on their faces. "But things were fine. He's not dead."

"Good." Alfred, chuckling, set the tray down on the dresser nearby. "Well." He clapped his hands once. It was obvious from his movements that he hadn't been expecting her there. Nevertheless, Alfred played it off like a true gentleman, smiling all the way. "I'll bring up another breakfast, then."

It was only until Alfred had left that Monty began questioning herself… yet again. Pursing her lips and scooting closer to Bruce, she wondered if sleeping with him had been a bad move on her part, only further muddling the predicament she was in. Was it hazardous?

All Monty knew was that she could finally say the truth.

Monty De Luca was in love with Bruce Wayne.

It had taken five years, and yet, it seemed so fast.

And as the young woman curled up into the man's arms, shutting her eyes and listening to the sounds of his breathing, she realized another truth.

She'd never been happier.

* * *

**A/N: I know that wasn't what most of you expected... trust me, it wasn't what I expected to WRITE, either. It slipped my mind there for a while that Bruce is really injured, and we saw how bad his shape was at the beginning of TDKR... that was eight years! This is only five! So he can't really 'go at it' like a youngster. Mild is better.**

**Ah well. I'm still putting this under M... because you know, John IS coming soon... :)**

**Anyway. Also hope you noticed that at the front of Chapter One, it reads: ACT 1. Yes, this is ACT 1. We're almost to ACT 2, which will mainly be TDKR.**

**Thanks to everyone who's reviewed! Seriously, you all make my day.**


	12. Mark

**Bat Appétit**  
A _Batman Begins/Dark Knight/Dark Knight Rises_ Fanfic by SouthernImagineer/ecto1B  
Chapter Twelve - another one dedicated to Hope, my best friend and inspiration. She never ceases to amaze me with her talent!

* * *

"Any emotion, if it is sincere, is involuntary." – Mark Twain

"You are making a terrible mistake."

Monty turned, her head tilted at Curtis suspiciously, as if she couldn't believe what she'd just heard. The pair had been silent for a good minute or two, having just finished discussing the latest restaurant news… his remark was unexpected and sinister. Lips pursed, the woman finished folding the t-shirt she was holding and set it down on the table beside the others.

After a moment, the words found their grip on her tongue. "A mistake," she repeated in disbelief, knowing the topic had instantly changed without her consent.

"A mistake." Like a hallway echo with a deeper, ominous tone, her friend happily spouted back at her from his place at the kitchen table. "You've managed to convince yourself that you love him, is that it? Just because the man slept with you. You think that's a good enough reason to dupe yourself into believing lies?" He scoffed. "You can only trick yourself so long. You can only trick _him _so long." Absentmindedly, Curtis twiddled the smoking cigarette between his fingers, and briefly Monty caught a glimpse of a great dragon in the way Curtis let fire past his lips, spurting it back at her with just as much effort.

The sight was macabre.

Because Monty was so used to receiving this particular lecture, she paid it no mind and chose to reiterate the few counter-statements that were often used at this stage. While she spoke, her hands continued to fold clothes.

"Curtis, how old am I?"

She watched his eyes roll.

"You are thirty-two, Monty."

"Good. And how old is Mr. Wayne?"

"Thirty… thirty-five, I believe?"

"Yes." Dropping the last folded blouse on the table, Monty stepped away and meandered around to stand beside her friend. Like a teacher scolding a student, she peered down at him with a solemn glint in her eye.

"For the last time, you are not my father. You should not be telling me—"

It was so sudden, and so painful. Like breaking glass, like a screaming siren, like lightning hitting home, Curtis erupted. He slammed his fists on the table, sending his cigarette flying.

"I am your _friend_, goddamn it!" he yelled hoarsely. "Despite the age gap, despite everything, I have been there for you through everything!"

Monty remained perfectly still.

"I want you to be a better person, Monty! I'm trying to tell you that this is a mistake! Don't you see? You've lied to yourself all this time, assuring yourself that this was all for family, all for their sake, all for the restaurant." His voice rose. "But none of it has been for them. It's all been for you. The antisocial little girl wanted to prove that she could do something wicked. She wanted to demonstrate to her parents that she could be gregarious enough to exploit one of the wealthiest men on earth. She wanted to do something heroic, something no one could ever think she was capable of doing. And I _tried_." The thin wrinkles on his face, scratched with age, tightened and locked into one firm form. "Over time, I tried to tell you otherwise. I tried to convince you it was wrong. God knows your parents and grandfather weren't thinking right when they agreed to this plan. How could they have let someone so innocent commit a crime so heinous? I made a mistake in giving you the idea and not stopping you from following through. I should've known better then." His lips pulled into a pockmarked thin line, and his eyes narrowed accordingly. "Maybe I thought you were a better person than that. Maybe, after the explosion, I thought you'd strive your hardest to compensate for the loss of life there."

Curtis stood.

"You were once a good person with good morals and a bright heart. You were my friend. And now you've become this manipulative hellion who has robbed a wealthy man of his money. End it, Monty. Stop lying to yourself and end it."

Monty simply lowered her eyes.

"I love him, Curtis, no matter what you believe," she murmured, speaking to his dismay, "and I will never tell him the truth. That would ruin what we have spent so long constructing." Weakly, her gaze met his, and she noted the fury there. "Asking me to destroy it… I can't, Curtis. I can't. I won't. I refuse to. I'm done hearing you tell me how to live my life. I'm done with you disagreeing with me. I'm done with your attacks." She also found herself narrowing her eyes. "Leave me alone."

Perhaps Curtis saw no other option.

He removed himself from the table.

"Fine."

Picking up the burnt cigarette from the tabletop, the older man stormed through the kitchen and to the front hallway, muttering all the way. Monty could've sworn she heard Bruce's name somewhere in Curtis's grumblings, but she chose to pay it no mind, and instead followed a good distance behind him.

Curtis stopped at the door with his hand on the handle.

"You aren't going to tell him."

"Nope."

"You're sure?"

Monty pursed her lips. "I'm sure."

"Fine."

Again, the word stung like a blow of harsh winter air across her cheek.

"Bye, Monty."

The door slammed, and Monty retreated back to the kitchen, her head throbbing.

Was he right? Had she merely convinced herself that she loved Bruce?

No, he wasn't right. She _did_ love Bruce. She was certain of it. Whenever she saw him, her stomach charged with frantic butterflies and her legs began shaking; her lips chapped and her fingers squirmed; her throat grew dry and her toes curled. He could easily make her laugh, and just as easily bring her to tears. Every instance where he touched her seared a new stamp of ownership upon her skin, a new brand, a new mark that could not be washed away with soap and water. A fierce seal, Bruce's mark upon her outsides as well as her insides choked the gloom from her world and erected laughter and warmth in its place.

They'd slept together three times. She'd stayed the night six.

She loved him.

"I love him."

And it was so.

Had she really done it all for family, though? Was Curtis right? Had Monty been searching for a way of fulfillment, an escapist's act?

Perhaps she was more at fault than she thought.

Monty contemplated this. She contemplated this as she cleaned her closet, as she made herself dinner, and as she watched TV. Though her hands worked, though her eyes stared, observed, received, Monty could not focus on anything but Curtis's words. His accusations burned almost as strongly as Bruce's fingers upon her arms.

She contemplated this all night.

She contemplated this until the phone call.

* * *

"Your move, Master Wayne."

Bruce studied his pieces, his expression furtive.

"I haven't played chess in ages, Alfred. You have to cut me some slack."

Both men grinned in equal measures, but Alfred's smile was more apparent. He gazed across the small table at the bearded man, studying the boy he'd spent so many years raising. For a moment, he watched Bruce ponder his next move, watched how his eyebrows furrowed and raised at different points in time.

"You look like your father when you do that," Alfred remarked, and Bruce looked up.

"When I do what?"

"Your pensive eyes… and your brows. Your father used to sit at his desk for hours with those same eyes. Sometimes his were aimed downward, at papers in his hand." Alfred paused, recollecting. "Sometimes they looked nowhere. In space. And his brows would do the same as yours just did. Lower briefly, and then raise out of nowhere. Curious."

Bruce returned to the chess set and made a move.

"Good one."

Alfred moved.

"Damn." Bruce frowned as Alfred removed a piece from the board. "You're good."

"I am."

"Alfred, what do you think about me… coming back?"

His words snapped the game in two.

"Coming back, Master Wayne?"

"To the real world. Becoming a public figure again. Five years is enough, right?" Bruce leaned back in his chair and stared up at the ceiling. "I've been… thinking about doing it. Making my appearance again. Showing up at a party in town to announce my arrival."

The corners of Alfred's lips twitched. "By any chance, would there be a young lady on your arm as you arrived, Master Wayne? A young blonde lady?"

Bruce's fingers formed a triangle over his lips and beard. "I've considered it."

At last, Alfred felt as if he could breath an enormous sigh of relief. He'd hoped the woman's presence would spur Bruce into action once more, bringing the hermit back into the land of the living.

It seemed to have worked.

"She inspired you to consider it, then." Alfred posed his statement as a light accusation instead of a question, hoping that would render a positive response.

It did. "Yes. She… has done wonders for me. My only way of thanking her would be to prove her efforts have not been in vain." Bruce licked his lips. "She deserves a great deal from me, Alfred. I care about her a lot."

"And she cares about you, too," Alfred responded, nodding. "I can see it in her eyes. She'd appreciate your return just as much as I would."

It was an odd time for someone to be ringing the doorbell; nevertheless, it rang, and Alfred excused himself from the table to answer the door. He smiled all the way, and Bruce, noting this, echoed the smile.

"Then it's decided!" Bruce called out to the butler. "I'll return."

He sounded happy, and that was all Alfred had ever wished for.

Finally, they were both satisfied.

Alfred, still chuckling, stepped to the front door and swung it open. Instantly, a nighttime chill hit him, and the moonlight cast a baleful glow on the figure on the doorstep.

"Yes?"

The man that stood there was middle-aged, with thin wrinkles and flashing eyes.

"I need to speak with Bruce Wayne," he croaked in a throaty whisper.

"I'm sorry." Alfred dipped his head. "He isn't taking visitors right now."

The man was persistent. "I must speak with him. It's urgent." He must've spotted Bruce over Alfred's shoulder, for he called out, "I know Monty."

"Monty?" Now came the sound of Bruce and his cane lagging to the door. "You know her? Is she all right?"

Pursing his lips in an almost unnatural manner, the man nodded.

"My name is Curtis. I'm her best friend. I need to speak with you."

* * *

**A/N: ... uh oh.**

**That's all I'll say.**

**Uh oh...**

**(Sorry for the late update. School started. Yikes!)**


	13. Lewis

**Bat Appétit**  
A _Batman Begins/Dark Knight/Dark Knight Rises_ Fanfic by SouthernImagineer/ecto1B  
Chapter Thirteen - dedicated to Maegan and Cassie, who helped me edit the SHIT out of this chapter!

* * *

"Forgiving is love's toughest work, and love's biggest risk. If you twist it into something it was never meant to be, it can make you a doormat or an insufferable manipulator. Forgiving seems almost unnatural. Our sense of fairness tells us people should pay for the wrong they do. But forgiving is love's power to break nature's rule." – Lewis B. Smedes

"She only did this for the money, you know. It was never about you."

Bruce remained unaffected by the man's words, though the principled part of his brain twitched in comprehension. His Monty was not as upright as he tried to believe. "I knew that already," he said slowly, falling back in his chair and letting the hard wood grind into his spine. "Or, I had a feeling it was to blame. Five years was not enough to damage my intellect. I could see it in the way she carried herself around me in the first year of our friendship, the way her eyes danced around with an odd airiness." He shook his head. "Your announcement does not startle me, Mr. Sanderson, but perhaps you wanted it to? I mean, why else…" he trailed off, the faint lines of a knowledgeable, feigned smirk on his lips, "… would you be here?"

A spark of dumbfounded fury filled the man's cold gaze. He ignored Bruce's accusation and continued his rant. "You're telling me that you don't care what she did? She took advantage of you, and you're just gonna sit there like she did nothing? You don't care… _at all_?"

"I don't give a _damn_, actually," Bruce corrected hotly. "If her intentions were immoral in the beginning, they have altogether changed over the last five years. Progressed. Improved. She is not a bad person; she no longer sees me as a monetary source. I've had plenty of women seek me for my wealth, Mr. Sanderson, and I have grown rather skilled at detecting it. Monty does not wish for more donations. We are pursuing a romantic relationship—"

"You believe that."

His tone was intricately barbed in poison.

"You believe she actually loves you."

Bruce did his best to remain untouched, even as the words sunk deeper into the pit of his stomach and set the muscles there aflame. He could feel himself blanching, retracting back, shielding himself from harm. At once, the back of his chair became a wall, imprisoning any thoughts of hope within its cold embrace, and no matter how hard he tried, Bruce could not muster the strength to stand.

"I believe a woman when she tells me she loves me," he responded curtly. "If you don't agree—"

"She doesn't love you."

"Excuse me?"

Bruce was falling, falling into cynicism.

There was no way.

"She doesn't love you."

"You're mistaken, Mr. Sanderson. Severely mistaken." His brain rushed to spurt justification; his words refused to appear at an even, counted pace. "I have known Monty for five years—"

"I've known her for twenty-two. She's been a shameless liar to you, Bruce. Trust me. She tells me things. She does not love you."

Bruce was shaking. He could feel his eyebrows toppling downward to barricade his narrowed eyes from any more pieces of fiction. Of course the man was wrong, pulling these allegations "out of his ass," so to speak. Monty De Luca had peeled back every inch of skin for Bruce to see and experience over the five years. She had revealed every secret, every dark tale from her childhood and school years, confessed to innocent flings and learning curves that taught her to become independent and hardworking. Speeches about her love of the family restaurant and stories from college produced laughter and tears. Graphic emotions and woes had poured into Bruce's ears, just as his Batman sagas had reached hers. It was almost impossible for someone like her to break from herself and lie.

That was Monty De Luca: devoted to family, industrious, benevolent, self-sufficient, intuitive… and Bruce Wayne was in love with her. Now she was being accused of things Bruce could not wrap his head around. The money bit, he didn't mind. It was Curtis Sanderson's testimony that scared him.

Monty loved him back… right?

Of course she did.

Why was he doubting her?

Bruce loved her.

Bruce trusted her. That was a part of love, trusting her. And he did. He was smarter than this; he would not be fooled by some random idiot's claims. He had the strength to ignore Sanderson's words and go on with his secluded life. Tomorrow, Monty would visit. Tomorrow, Monty would show up with a new dish for him to try, and he would relish in it, tasting it just as he tasted her, perhaps later staggering to bed with her at his side. The two would make love, vanishing into their own world, and he would awake with her pale form clinging to his chest. There were no questions asked, no doubts on whether or not the woman's moaned mantra of "I love you" was authentic. It was not dalliance that drove her, nor was it capital.

It was love that motivated her. Actual, genuine love. She'd promised.

She _loved_ him.

… or did she?

The man went on, despite Bruce's silence and disbelief, despite the silent soliloquy that ran in his head. "You should hear the way she talks about you when she's with us. When she's with her family. She pities you, really. That's all it is. Pity. That's why she stayed around so long. It became more than money to her. It became a mission, and you turned into her charity case. You were a chance to practice her cooking skills, a chance to vent, and a chance to earn some substance in her boring life. After the explosion, things became uneventful and tedious. She saw you as an escape from that."

Bruce struggled to turn a deaf ear to Sanderson's words.

"It was never about love, Mr. Wayne. At first, it was money, and then it became sympathy." Like a serpent, his eyes seemed to gleam with content. "Disregard everything she's told you. None of it was true. She never fell in love with you."

Clenching his jaw, the billionaire restrained his urge to pummel the man to the ground (the motion was far too Batman-like for playboy Bruce Wayne to implement… and it wasn't as if he could in the first place, for his leg still roared in steady pain).

"Do you have substantial evidence to support this extravagant claim, Mr. Sanderson?" This was Bruce's method of attack; he needed to know if Monty's best friend could prove it. If the man couldn't prove it… everything would return back to normal.

"I've presented my evidence, Mr. Wayne." Dipping his head, Sanderson lowered one eyebrow. "Monty De Luca came to you in the first place for money. She wanted to fix the family's restaurant, and she saw you and your wealth as a last resort. Monty is not known for having great people skills, either, so this would also help prove to her parents that she could do something for the restaurant's sake. She didn't even have to _ask_ you, Mr. Wayne. You started sending money after the third week! She was happy, and so were we. She continued to see you, and a year into it, the restaurant was up and running again, thanks to you! The plan was working! So she stuck around! And guess what?" His pause was brief, indicating an urgency to finish. "Monty never intended on telling you the truth. I spoke with her constantly, begging her to come clean, and she refused. She wanted to see how far she could go—"

Sanderson's second pause, accompanied by a loud cough, shook Bruce's bones. His well-trained mind knew the man wasn't making an illogical allegation. A billionaire with a full beard and a bad knee was bound to receive some amount of condolence, especially since he'd chosen to ignore the outside world and hole up in his mansion for years. Was Monty capable of such lies, though? Sanderson made it sound like she'd never intended to reveal the truth about the necessary restaurant funds…

"And now that the donations have stopped, now that you've slept with her and convinced yourself that you love her, why do you think she stuck around? You're a smart guy," Sanderson added quickly, "smart enough to detect a lie of this magnitude. How come she stayed with you?"

Bruce had become skilled in channeling his anger elsewhere. When Rachel died, he boxed himself within a single room and didn't leave for a good day or two. Choosing to focus negative energy outward instead of hiding it or targeting another person was Bruce's common goal. But now? Now the anger was not born from grieving. Instead, rage chugged into existence from a feeling of absolute betrayal.

There was no life in the response he uttered.

"Because she loves me, Mr. Sanderson."

And Curtis Sanderson, biting his lip, countered a final time.

"No, Mr. Wayne. You are incorrect. Monty De Luca pities you." Shrugging his shoulders, Sanderson looked down. "I finally summoned enough courage to come and tell you myself. It was getting out of hand."

Crushed like a bug smacked on a window, like the remnants of soda can clenched within a mighty fist, the air in Bruce's lungs vanished. He was left as a paper-thin form hunched in his seat, his throat dry and his skin numbed, his heart, snapped with an additional heartbreak, reeked in its new fracture.

Had it all been a lie?

Monty's best friend said it was.

Was that enough proof for him?

Sighing, the man dropped his head into a nod.

Yes.

Yes it was.

* * *

She was barely able to fit a word in.

"Bruce, what's—"

"_Come to the manor. Now._"

"But—"

"Now, _Monty. Come to the manor._"

"Why—"

The phone disconnected with a sharp click, and Monty did as she was told. Only a few hours ago, Curtis had left with a slam of the door—Bruce's voice, brusque and dark, imitated the way Curtis had spoke just before he'd left, and that was not a good sign. Was it a coincidence that they sounded familiar?

Shaking her head, Monty exited her apartment, hopped into her Matrix, and sped off in the direction of the Palisades. The radio played a gentle tune as she drove; she paid it no mind, even though its steady rhythm and crooning chorus unintentionally parodied her "keep calm" mindset. A malignant, settling ache in her stomach told her to panic, but the sensible side of her brain cried otherwise.

Bruce sounded raspy, like he had when she'd first met him. His voice had been tight, like cards held close to the chest, hiding the truth from view. There was also traces of anger dabbled there, distress resembling his speeches about Rachel and his parents.

Monty, however, pressed onward.

Alfred was not the one to open the door. Instead, Bruce was there, hunkered to himself. And when Monty attempted to greet him in her usual fashion, he merely grunted.

"We need to talk."

Monty stepped inside, brushing the soles of her shoes on the doormat, but her eyes never left him.

"Is something wrong?"

He grunted again, signifying an affirmative.

"Great," she sighed.

Monty followed the limping man into the nearest room with seating and took a spot across from him on the couch. The manor smelled of balsam fir—Monty's favorite candle scent, and inwardly she caught herself choking back in fear.

Alfred had set a candle on the table there, a small green one with a tiny wick.

A sign.

Monty couldn't recall the exact day, but at once point during the last five years, Alfred had touched on his knowledge of formal conversations. He knew what kind of environment a heated dialogue needed to survive, and a candle was on the list.

A heated dialogue.

Something was amiss.

"What is it, Bruce?" Unable to restrain herself any longer, Monty blurted her confusion. "Your call scared me. You sounded so—"

"Twenty-five years ago, my family and I dined at _De Luca's_."

"What?"

"On the night my parents were murdered, we visited your restaurant." Behind his beard, his jaw was tight, his lips, thin and eerily thoughtful. He seemed to pay no attention to Monty, who had already let her mouth hand wide. Speaking in even strokes, Bruce sounded rehearsed. "I met your grandmother. She was good friends with my mother. They had a long conversation. They hadn't seen each other in years. Your grandmother was a nice woman. Very polite, and very friendly. My mother loved her, praised her, because of her qualities, and because of the morals she held. When our food arrived, she went back into the kitchen."

Almost maliciously, his eyes turned and suctioned onto hers. "That was why I donated money to the restaurant. That was why I craved your presence. You reminded me of that sweet old woman who made my parents feel right at home on their last night alive. Seeing how hard you worked and how devoted you were to the restaurant only made my impulse to help stronger. I could disregard your ill intent if I could spend time with you."

Monty could feel the bones in her body giving way beneath weight, weight that had suddenly smashed against her shoulders and battered her soul to a crisp.

"B-Bruce…" She swallowed, wary. "You knew."

"I've known all along, but that's not important."

"Then…"

"I've been presented with a reason to doubt you, Monty. I cannot confide in you any longer."

"Wh-What?"

"You never intended to tell me about the money. Even though I knew all along, I wanted to hear you confess to it. I wanted to hear you finally pull back that last curtain and reveal to me every secret you'd hid from me. I wanted to have complete faith in the woman I've grown so fond of over the past five years. And yet—" he paused, his voice now resembling the gravelly undertone of the Batman… "—you were never planning on telling me. My hopes were for none. You lied."

Regaining her voice, the woman struggled to format her sentences. "M-My intentions changed over the y-years, Bruce. I was trying to p-put the past behind me and move on to this relationship we were starting."

Much to her surprise, he nodded. "Your intentions did change. I'm aware of that." He didn't give her a second to respond before his voice rocketed with power. "I'm your little science experiment, then? The rich airhead locked in one place, shielded from the outside world… a new social observation to present to your parents. Now that you've managed to trick me into donating money, you feel the need to take pity on me and stick around, earn a little sex on the side."

His face was flushed.

"Is that it? Is that not what you intended?"

"No."

Instinctively, Monty clutched her chest.

"No?"

"No, Bruce. No." The tears were coming faster than she could stop them, and one managed its way onto her cheek before her next words were said. "Th-That was never it. I did this all for family. From the beginning, it w-was for my family, to keep them happy and stable. The restaurant… it was damaged; I had to act fast to s-save it." She closed her eyes. "And th-then it progressed, and I fell in love—"

"Bull_shit_. Don't lie to me, Monty. You've already lied plenty."

"But I'm not!"

"You are."

"I'm n-not! I swear, Bruce!"

"I can't trust you, Monty. You lie."

It was like a typical playground quarrel, back-and-forth bickering with raised voices and burning gazes.

Painful.

"Bruce…" Now she was standing, stepping over to him, pleading, wiping tears from her cheeks. She couldn't believe he was saying these things. "Please listen to me. I made a mistake. I n-never should have lied to you, I kn-know. It was wrong. Immoral. But pl-please understand that I _love you_. I am in love with you! And I—"

"No."

It was no longer Bruce Wayne that sat there. The Batman gazed up at the shaking woman, indifferent and cold, threatening another step forward into uncharted territory. He dared her to touch him, to convince him of his mistake.

Monty could barely look at him.

"I am done hearing those words," the Batman whispered at last, "and I am done with the lies you give me." Even softer, he murmured, "Go."

A bullet would have hurt less. Bracing back sobs and sounds of shock, Monty took baby steps backwards and back into the hallway.

He didn't look at her.

"Br-Bruce…"

"Go."

She gripped the door handle. "Bruce, I love y-you."

The Batman remained perfectly still.

"Go."

Monty did as she was told.

**END ACT 1**


	14. Act 2: Joel

**Bat Appétit**  
A _Batman Begins/Dark Knight/Dark Knight Rises_ Fanfic by SouthernImagineer/ecto1B  
Chapter Fourteen - dedicated to the cast of _Whose Line is it, Anyway?_ because they make boring nights at the computer incredibly fun.

* * *

**Act 2.**

"You must make a decision that you are going to move on. It won't happen automatically. You will have to rise up and say, 'I don't care how hard this is, I don't care how disappointed I am, I'm not going to let this get the best of me. I'm moving on with my life." – Joel Osteen

Over the next three years, change became a reoccurring theme.

The first year was the hardest. Much to the astonishment of those she knew personally, Monty quickly went and marred her blonde locks until every inch of the inherited platinum had vanished behind brown dye. She bought a new apartment, choosing to stray closer to Gotham's outskirts rather than remain so close to the city's center, and got a full-time job as the lead bookseller at a local Barnes and Noble. No longer would she work at the family restaurant, especially not after what had transpired, not after her closest ally (and lover) had kicked her away because of what she'd done. _De Luca's_ would have to endure without her because she could not stand the looming reminder of Bruce Wayne at every turn. Everything she had worked so hard to build was suddenly meaningless. Bruce had been the savior she'd been looking for, after all, and she'd let him die, just like that. Like Christ himself, hung to the cross, Bruce had opened up his goodness to her: the lowly, undeserving woman at his feet. Even when he asked for the truth, he remained fixed to the cross.

Monty's lies were the nails that kept him there.

The fight had left Monty De Luca beleaguered and bellicose. Her family saw this and kept out of harm's way, calling once or twice a week to check up on her, but otherwise keeping their distance. It was useless, trying to change her, trying to make up for what she had lost in the altercation, and they knew this well. There was no saving her, not when her mind had strayed so far for so long.

No matter how hard her parents and grandfather tried, Monty was beyond liberation.

The De Lucas quietly, gradually, glumly slid into the shadows of Gotham, and were silent.

On the other end, Bruce Wayne remained faithful to his five-year—now six year—withdrawal. The people of Gotham had no idea what chaos ensued within Wayne Manor's halls, so they were unaffected by this continual silence, and nothing came about in the papers about the clash between the cook and the playboy.

It was for the best.

Two years came and went. Monty's days persisted in simplicity, if not in tedium and monotony, too, and she knew it. She was perfectly aware that her life sat before her, displayed in a glass case, having shattered beneath the weight of her lies and misconduct. At this stage in her life, Monty finally recognized Bruce Wayne's pain in her own suffering. He had stepped back from regular life and succumbed to agony; she had done the same.

They weren't so different after all.

Monty assumed she had reached rock bottom by the middle of her second year without Bruce. Even with a pleasing, decent-paying job and a moderately sized apartment at her fingertips, Monty had lost the glow she'd once received from cooking at the family restaurant. She didn't get to see her mother and father; she didn't get to cook alongside the chefs in the kitchen, crack jokes to make them laugh, or even whisk a plate or two to the dining hall, where a customer would be waiting with a smile to greet her. It hurt to lose such a prominent pastime along with Bruce… and because of this, she knew rock bottom had found her.

There was no more to be taken away. Monty had sunk into a hollow shell, her core scraped from within. If this was the base of suffering, the woman had licked it clean.

Little did she know, rock bottom took a different form, despite what Monty believed. It was not there when Bruce spurned her. It had not arrived when she learned of Curtis's breach of trust, fought with him, and kicked him from her home. It was not even hidden in the tears she cried when she decided to discontinue her love of cooking for good, for Bruce's sake. In a horrific sense, rock bottom had other ideas. It chose to land on her doorstep wearing a black hood and carrying miserable news.

At the end of the second year, just as things began to peer back to the sky with hope, Giorgio De Luca passed away. Once more, Monty was hammered into the ground with grief, and this time, no one called her, no one paid her a visit to assure she was living, breathing, surviving…

… because she wasn't. She was buried under a mess of her own doing, only shoved further down by the loss of her grandfather.

Depression took Monty De Luca hostage.

* * *

"Grandpa?"

Waterlogged eyes gazed down at the small patch of grass beside the headstone. The marker had not yet experienced age or weather; its words, flat in context, were still legible and lacked the dilapidation usually associated with tombstones.

It was a fresh grave.

"Grandpa," she said again, swallowing thickly, "I never really got to say goodbye to you."

Her hands gingerly set the bouquet of red flowers beside the stone.

"I'm sorry I left the restaurant. I'm sorry that what I did reflected poorly on our family. I'm sorry that I became something less than what you wanted me to be. But I'm here now, hoping that you still love me, hoping that you can still care for me from your place in heaven."

She looked down.

"I hurt Bruce, Grandpa. Grandma wouldn't have wanted that. Apparently she loved the Waynes when they were alive. Bruce told me. They visited the restaurant on the night they died. They… sat at one of our tables. Met with Grandma. I made a mistake in targeting him, in seeking his company for monetary gain. That was wrong. I never should have done that."

The grass at her feet swayed in the breeze that rushed past, twirling a few of Monty's brown locks along with it. Momentarily, she studied the small protruding spikes of green, as if the song they danced to was one her grandfather sang.

"I need a cure, Grandpa," she went on, softly this time. "I know that you can see me right now. I know I've done wrong, and I need your help. I'm broken. I don't want to live like this any longer. I want to wake up every morning like you did, with a smile on your face and thoughts of love in your head. I want to honor your life just as much as Grandma Nancy's. I want my parents to be proud of me again. I want to have friends." She eyed the lines on her hand, the elongated strips of muscle on her knuckles and down her skin. "I'm about to enter my mid-thirties, Grandpa. I'll be thirty-four next month. I can't be alone all my life."

Almost begging, she peered up into the cloud-filled sky and squeezed her hands together.

"Please help me. I need help. I seek help."

Her head lowered once more.

"I miss you, Grandpa."

The tears began forming faster than she could stop them.

"Please. I have nothing left. I have spiraled into a life of depression when I should be thankful for what I have already."

She studied the tombstone beside his. This one was more worn, with fading letters and a few remaining flowers resting atop the bedding of green.

"Grandma, Grandpa. I ask for your help, for I am finished."

* * *

"He's been here for an hour, y'know. Following you." She smiled a crooked smirk and ran a hand over her cheek's dark complexion. "He's handsome! A bit scrawny, but handsome, none the less!"

Monty rolled her eyes. Lucinda Glompers was adept at spitting conspiratorial statements in every direction, and Monty often received the blunt of them. "I doubt that, Lucy," she countered, trying to remain focused on the papers in front of her. "I highly doubt that. Things like that don't happen to me."

The other cashier, a slender black-haired woman with a pair of jagged eyebrows, also channeled her inner matchmaker. "Lucy, is it a stalker-like follow, or a 'hey, you're attractive' follow? We can't get our hopes up over the first one."

Lucy's slender chin dipped. "Definitely the latter, Cassie. Don't you think Monty should go talk to him?"

"I'm not talking to him." Monty spoke directly in an effort to clear up any confusion or leftover doubt. "You know how I am with men."

Monty had gained these two as workplace companions the very moment she stepped foot inside Gotham's Barnes and Noble. Willowy and beautiful, the two women were like misplaced models in a world of plain Janes, and Monty knew why. The only reason the two women worked at the bookstore was because their husbands had insisted for them to 'keep themselves busy' while they went off on their business trips and whatnot. Both lived in almost Bruce Wayne-like apartments, both could afford ritzy jewelry and fine dining… why they chose Barnes and Noble as their glamorous getaway, Monty hadn't a clue. She wondered if it was merely a reflection of their intelligences, or perhaps brought about by a penchant of the bourgeois lifestyle beneath their feet.

Nevertheless, Lucinda Glompers and Cassie Lewis were determined to assimilate their less-than-fortunate friend into their circle-of-life or whatever the _hell_ they called it.

At least Monty had someone to talk to.

"Come on!" Not surprising was the amount of gusto in their smiles compared to Monty's lack thereof. Cassie's almost eye-piercing white teeth beamed from behind her lips. "He's got to be interested if he's stayed around this long!"

"Exactly!" Lucy added. "Why else would he stay? Have you not noticed how he's always in the section of the store you're in?"

Sucking in a breath, Monty aimed a quick mental prayer upward.

_This was not what I had in mind, Grandpa._

"Maybe you should call security," Monty offered. "If he's acting suspicious—"

"Talk to him!" Lucy demanded. "You have to. You must!" When Monty finally met her eyes, the woman went on with an odd amount of sincerity to her words. "Monty, you're always complaining about how you'll die alone. You always say that the closer you get to your forties, the less likely it will be for a guy to notice you. Sure, you made some mistakes in the past, but why can't this be the moment when that whole idea changes?"

For someone often accused as being a bimbo, Lucy had a point.

"Fine."

Both Lucy and Cassie widened their gazes. "Really?"

"Yes." Monty understood this as something she wasn't supposed to live down. She dropped the pen back onto the counter and slid the papers into a neat pile. "Just so you'll quit bugging me."

Behind the measured squeals of feminine joy, Monty swore she heard "That's Amore" begin to waft from somewhere nearby.

It was a sign.

* * *

**A/N: Sorry for the long wait! I blame school and sickness and friends and family and homework and YouTube and Red Dead Redemption... etc.**

**Another chapter I'm not too fond of... BUT THE NEXT CHAPTER.**

**THE NEXT CHAPTER.**

**I'm already giddy.**

**Notice that this story's cover has changed to fit Act 2? Heheh.**

**Please review!**


	15. Kayla

**Bat Appétit**  
A _Batman Begins/Dark Knight/Dark Knight Rises_ Fanfic by SouthernImagineer/ecto1B  
Chapter Fifteen - dedicated to Hans Zimmer, who can create an entire world in my mind with just one song.

* * *

"Without a single thought, two hands collide and the world finally makes sense again." – Kayla Dawn

Working at Barnes and Nobles had its fair share of positives and negatives, resulting in numerous days when Monty fought with herself about staying or quitting. She'd been there two years. The pay was decent, the other employees were amicable, and there were enough benefits to keep her locked in place, but books—the whole basis behind the store's existence—were, in truth, her Kryptonite. Some boasted titles with cheesy undertones about finding true love or repairing relationships, with charts to obey and strict schedules to adhere to. Others fanned their contents like a buffet of mnemonics, like an aroma of repulsive prompts, dangling enough to catch Monty's eye and have her wince and look away. Some told parochial tales with ridiculous character names and plot twists, all leading up to a grand wedding between two star-struck lovers. And even a handful claimed to promise riches and fame and happiness by following "three simple steps," steps that made no sense to anyone but the gullible and desperate. Cookbooks were the killer though, imprinting a terrible fury of recollection on Monty's mind and giving her hands reason to fidget, aching to stir a pot of boiling soup or knead a loaf of her grandfather's favorite bread. They were the reason for her hesitation, her reticence.

If only the reminders were gone.

Her station, too, was placed a short distance from the towering shelf that housed the cookbooks. She could stand there everyday and pick off titles she recognized… _Everyday Italian_, Monty's favorite collection Giada De Laurentiis recipes; _Mastering the Art of French Cooking_, the staple Julia Child cookbook in any chef's collection… Monty was even obsessed enough to recognize the entire section of Paula Deen cookbooks at first glance. Even though her specialty was Italian cuisine, Monty remembered the hundreds of hours she'd spent pouring over recipes from around the world, and not regretting a single minute.

If only the reminders were gone.

Was it a coincidence that Lucinda's mystery man now stood at the edge of the cookbook isle, peering over at Monty from behind Tyler Florence's _Real Kitchen: An Indispensable Guide for Anybody Who Likes to Cook_?

He smiled like Bruce: with ambiguity.

Monty winced at the realization.

If only the reminders were gone.

He was tall and thin, with evident muscles beneath his sweater and shoulders that stood firm and leveled the rest of his body. His broad forehead and thin mouth made him look significantly older than he probably was, but once he flashed a smile and let his eyes glint in her direction, he appeared younger and almost childlike. His grin was cheeky, forcing crinkly spots beside his eyes to form and youthful dimples to appear; now his visual maturity all but disintegrated, and a blush surged in his cheeks.

The person he studied was studying him right back.

The man bit his lip as if to stifle a laugh, as if Monty had told a joke that only he'd been able to hear. In response, the cookbook was raised high enough to hide his eyes. Monty caught herself giggling out loud, turning her back to the counter and also hiding her face from his line of sight. What had gotten into her? All of a sudden, she was a teenage girl again, giddy at the notion that someone had taken interest. Thinking back, Monty could only recall another moment when the feeling had been this strong, and she hadn't felt this at ease since Bruce.

Bruce.

That name was dirt to her now… or as close to dirt as her heart would allow. Shuddering, she let a rumble of a sigh growl in her stomach, a growl heavy enough to disrupt any unpleasant emotions from sprouting roots there. The man _was_ charmed. Who would spend their day in a bookstore if there was no valid reason for doing so?

She heaved another breath. Was it a mistake to be so entranced by a fantasy as diluted as this? Monty was a pragmatic person, but two years without Bruce and her family had molded an imagination plastered in delusions and dreams. Was it not unbecoming of her to think like this? To base her hopes in the wrinkled eye corners and pockmarked cheeks of a man she didn't know?

Her finger traced a casual line along the countertop's length in anticipation of what would come momentarily—or, of what she had decided to do: she would spin back around, a courteous gleam of a smile on her lips, and call out to him, inviting him to the help desk, excavating his replies for mannerisms and facets. She would consume the ingredients he gave her willingly in those few moments they spoke… perhaps meetings in the future would uncap additional components? She didn't know. All Monty had to do was turn around and initiate the next step of her life—

He was gone. There was an older man standing there now, one with a mustache and a red jacket, a man whose hands scoured the books before him and paid no attention to the brunette lady nearby. Monty frowned. Disappointment clouded her eyes, but she was trained in the art of concealing undesirable emotions, and the blatant visual image of chagrin never appeared.

He was… gone. There was no sign of him. Even when she spun around and stood on her tiptoes, peeking up above the rows and rows of shelving in the store, she could not locate the desired head of dark hair anywhere.

Furiously, she tugged on her earlobe. He was out of sight, but definitely not out of mind, and Monty regretted getting her hopes up in the first place. The relationship with Bruce had surely tainted her. No intelligent man on earth would tolerate contamination just to be with her. Monty De Luca was smeared in betrayal in lies, ridden with damage like a rotten apple caked in maggots. Maybe she was physically blighted, too?

_He must have seen a mark on me. A sight so gruesome, he couldn't stand to look in my direction any longer._

A curse stung her tongue.

_Dammit, Bruce. Why? Why did this have to happen? Why did I fall so in love with you when my intentions were so poor? Why did I put myself through such agony?_

Her legs shook and tried to give way, and Monty settled her quaking form by resting her forehead on the desk.

_Stop messing with my mind, Bruce. I wanted this guy to stay interested._

Her chin propped atop the wooden surface.

_And it's my fault he left._

It was then that Monty recognized an obstruction in her view. Usually, when she peered chin-first over her station, she saw a new side to the storefront. The usual standing height was broad and expansive, but this place near the middle carried her closer to an equilibrium of vantage points. She couldn't see over tall barriers or around wandering store patrons; instead, Monty was forced to gain a new understanding, calculating how to view the world from this modified position. But suddenly there was a prominent obstacle in her path, and the woman could not figure out why it was there.

An apple sat beside where her head had been, resting atop a few lonely books and a small scrap of ripped paper. A generous bite had been taken from the red skin, and as Monty picked up the fruit and studied it, she noticed the shallowness of the bite in comparison to the whole apple.

_Odd._

The paper beneath it had obviously been ripped from a notepad of sorts. Monty picked that up next, keeping the apple in one hand and holding the scrap in the other. Hasty writing covered both sides of the page.

She read it aloud.

"Tasted it. No poison."

It was signed _Prince Charming_.

A messily scrawled phone number was on the back.

Monty couldn't breathe.

_The mystery man. No. It couldn't be._

Suddenly there was a man at the end of the long isle leading to the store entrance, a man clutching a shiny red apple in his hand, a man that waved to her from across the way, beaming magnificently. He intruded into her line of sight, motioning for her attention.

_Call me_ he mouthed twice, just in case she'd missed the first. His hand shook the apple and shined it against his sweater. _Please._

And suddenly Monty could breathe again. Suddenly, the adolescent, instinctive girl had reappeared in a surge of lightning.

_Yes _she mouthed back. _Thank you._

The man went for the door and raised his apple.

She raised hers back in a meaningful toast.

They bit simultaneously.

Like the maelstrom of sweet flavor now bombarding her taste buds, Monty let the stream of positive emotions refuel her head, just like when she memorized her first recipe, like when she graduated from college, like when she first kissed Bruce. The negativity ceased to exist, and in came a renaissance.

Rebirth.

She watched the mystery man leave, apple in hand, and eagerly she delved back into her own glorious red liberator.

She had nothing to fear.

There was no poison.

He checked.

* * *

It wasn't much, he knew, but it was home. He wasn't allotted much time for decorating; between his daily shifts down at the GCPD and his volunteer work at St. Swithin's, the young man barely found time to come to terms with the apartment's inner workings. Meals were TV dinners and Lean Cuisines, so the stove and oven remained untouched. Cable bills were only prominent during football season (he blamed Ross for that). He kept the bathroom quite tidy, organizing his shaving tools, prescriptions, and the occasional bottle of cologne in drawers under the sink, but besides the towel hanging from the shower door, there wasn't a single spot of color. To John, the apartment was merely a place for refuge for the night, a place where Gotham's dark streets could not reach him.

He could be safe for a moment, and that pleased him greatly.

Even though the rest of the 'bachelor pad' was simple and clean, John refused to classify the colossal bookshelf in the living room in the same modest category; it was anything but ordinary. Stretching up to touch the popcorn ceiling, the bookshelf stood like a portentous sentinel with rows upon rows of novels and textbooks stowed in its belly. John embraced his inner bibliophile with the assortment of books he collected over the years: books on astronomy, math, and politics; dictionaries and biographies; books about baseball and the vast history of the game; police and mystery novels, the kinds he used to read when he was a kid, the kind that got his blood pumping; sudoku and crossword puzzle books to satisfy the cruciverbalist within; controversial statement books documenting the mysterious Dark Knight and the rogue city he once protected; all could be found stuffed cover-to-cover along the wooden shelves, on display for the world to see.

This also pleased him.

John Blake visited a bookstore every Friday after work, eager to seize another prize for his exposition. He hoped to fill his head with knowledge, knowledge he could discharge during an episode of Jeopardy (_when_ he had time to watch). On the rare occasion he returned home empty-handed, a feeling of melancholy always followed suit. Perhaps he had missed that perfect novel when his eyes scanned too fast across the spines. Perhaps he visited the wrong bookstore, leaving his destined purchase miles across town, crying out for him.

But this time was different. John, paperback-less, stepped through the threshold of the old brownstone building with an unnatural smile on his face and an apple in his hand. His old iPhone 3 (a hasty purchase from a fellow officer eager to upgrade) was burning a hole in his jacket pocket, screaming for attention and waiting for the ideal moment to send John's generic ringtone ringing through the air.

John wanted it to ring. He wanted to hear a choir of random beeps echo from his pocket, wanted to see an unknown number pop onto the screen. He wanted to slide open the phone with a gentle flick and hold it to his ear, finally hearing the voice he was so desperate to experience. For once, he cared little about the lack of books in his hand; as he sauntered up the stairs and to his apartment, his mind reeled with graphic images of the woman he'd encountered and of her eyes.

Coffee eyes.

Bedroom eyes.

He quaked in the notion that she had responded so cheerfully. Biting into their respective apples in synchronization only reinforced the notion of serendipity. All of a sudden, he had found someone to take interest in, to gaze upon and admire in a pessimistic city.

If the phone call never came, John would return to Barnes and Noble.

He'd try again.

There was something about her. Something striking, like a mark shamelessly stamped upon her forehead, that caught his eye, and even though he had no clue what it was, John Blake was determined to find out.

The call came on Saturday.

* * *

**A/N: The Prince Charming idea is not mine! I stumbled upon a picture of the whole apple/note thing on Pinterest, and fell in love with the idea. I thought it was perfect for John and Monty's first meeting.**

**I know this chapter didn't have much dialogue, but I honestly feel the lack of dialogue was effective! Wouldn't you say?**

**And another note: I'm not even kidding when I say that this chapter was drafted BY HAND about four times. Augh. I think it was worth it... perhaps?**

**PLEASE go check out my sister's page if you need more TDKR! (_b4tmans_) She just put out a brand new story today about Batgirl! It's fantastic, and so is she! :)**

**Thanks for reading (and reviewing)!**


	16. Lemony

**Bat Appétit**  
A _Batman Begins/Dark Knight/Dark Knight Rises_ Fanfic by SouthernImagineer/ecto1B  
Chapter Sixteen - dedicated to my brand new obsession with Portal.

* * *

"Deciding whether or not to trust a person is like deciding whether or not to climb a tree, because you might get a wonderful view from the highest branch, or you might simply get covered in sap, and for this reason many people choose to spend their time alone and indoors, where it is harder to get a splinter." – Lemony Snicket

The call came on Saturday.

A heavy rain was just beginning its gentle, progressive murmur upon Gotham's streets, while clouds with gaping mouths lumbered forward to gorge on the feast of sky spread before them. At first, the October weather tolerated the incoming storm, but the clouds were too much, and buckets quickly poured into the city streets from above. Luckily, John found himself within the comforts of his car when the rain came, and he hunkered down to watch the water batter the windows. It was anything but quiet. Briefly, John tested the way his voice sounded when projected inside the vehicle, and his soft "Wow" drowned in the rain.

John loved the rain. He delighted in the earth's need to constantly freshen itself, especially when the time came to clean the sin from Gotham streets. Perhaps John credited this frequent ablution to his idealism. Perhaps he felt it was proof of innocence. In truth, John had no idea where his optimism came from, but he was all for crediting the rain with its power. Rain could trickle, drizzle down onto a battered road and wipe the blood and sweat from its grooves. It could douse men and women in wake-up calls, catch them off-guard, and enter their lives like an ominous metaphor of their actions. Wet hair, soaking clothes, and waterlogged shoes made up for agony and afflictions once desecrating the human soul—he knew this for a fact; the day his father died, a storm of monumental proportions targeted Gotham, and John was left to howl against the downpour as it hit him.

Wet weather had been responsible for John's evolution. It had been there to mold the eight-year-old into a powerhouse of duty. And even at twenty-eight, John felt the same confidence swelling in him.

Was that where his positive attitude came from?

He guessed as much.

Lost in his thoughts, John barely heard his ringtone explode from his pocket. The rain muffled it just like it did to his voice, but this sound was prominent enough to catch his attention, and thankfully so. Scrambling, John whipped the iPhone out and practically hurled it into view. His thin fingers clutched it, shaking.

The number was new.

In his head, he wished the rain would soften for a while. He wanted to hear every word she spoke to him. He wanted to memorize the sound. All night, he'd gone over multiple scenarios, hearing different voices escape from the brunette woman's plump lips and playing them over and over in his head until he grew dizzy.

What if it wasn't her? What if it was a wrong number?

John would wait. He would wait until she called. He'd spent all day in that store Friday, watching her, marveling at her smile and straightforward charm. He'd wait another full day if he had to. Heck, he'd wait another _month_ if that would help.

But the caller had to be her.

It _had_ to.

Slowly, John's trembling fingers answered the phone and brought the device to his ear. He mustered up the courage to speak.

"Hello?"

"_Hi._"

A simple greeting came, and John's stomach did backflips.

"_Is this… the man from the bookstore?_" she went on. "_The one who calls himself Prince Charming?_"

"Y-Yes, ma'am, this is… er… 'Prince Charming.'" Redness flooded his face. "John Blake, to be precise, ma'am."

"_John Blake_," she echoed after a moment. "_It is… nice to finally speak with you, John Blake._" The woman paused to cough. "_My name's Monty. Monty De Luca._"

An interesting name. A generally male first name, paired with Italian heritage? John stored it in his head for later research. "Pleased to meet… _meet_ you? Talk to you, ma'am." He tried to hide his chuckle. "Thank you for calling me. I was worried I was being a bit too much—"

"_No! You were fine! I loved it! Thank you! Honestly, I haven't been that happy in years. I went home laughing._" Was that the sound of a smile in her voice? "_I really appreciate the acknowledgement and the trouble you went through to do that._"

He was getting into the conversation now. While his free hand went to fix his hair, he reclined in the seat and cast a glance out the side window. "It was no trouble," he responded, "none at all. I was there for a while, trying to think of a way to creatively make myself known. I credit the children's fantasy section for the result."

"_Well, it worked. I called you!_"

That notion was enough to send a shiver down his spine.

"You did, ma'am."

"_And…?_" She seemed to be expecting something, but the playfulness in her tone was too gentle to be serious. "_You wanted me to call your number because…?_"

His heart raced. Words poured from his mouth like a runny faucet, unable to halt the flow. "Doyouwanttogooutsometime?"

"_Huh_?"

Filling his lungs with air, John tried again. "I wanted to know if… you'd like to go out sometime and talk. Lunch, maybe?" There was a definite shakiness to his voice, and he hoped she couldn't detect it. "I just… became really interested in you at the bookshop, and I thought that—"

"_How about coffee? In an hour?_"

"Coffee?"

Besides his parents, Father Reilly, and his job, coffee was John's favorite thing in the world.

He _was_ a cop, after all.

"_Yeah, coffee. Is that all right? The place down the street from town hall?_"

"Perfect."

This was turning out better than he'd expected. A sigh of relief caught his throat, and he smiled, peering up at the cloudy sky through the window.

The rain _did_ stand for something.

Change.

* * *

"It's not a very glamorous job." His bashful eyes and sheepish grin turned down the prospect of a compliment. "The pay's not so great, the risk of getting shot is high, and I'm at the bottom of the food chain when it comes to rank. The older guys can walk over me when they want."

"But you do it anyway," Monty tried, emulating his smile in a gentler form. "That's what I'm getting at here. You do what you love. That's all they tell you growing up, isn't it? Do what you love? It's noble of you, John."

She watched him swallow back the blushing reaction and rub his chin against his shoulder. "Yeah… I'm happy with what I do, despite the drawbacks. It makes sense to me, you know? Helping people." He coughed, and Monty sensed a change in topic surfacing—she was correct. "So how long have you worked at Barnes and Noble?" he wanted to know. "That seems like it'd be fantastic. Surrounded by books all day? It must be like a dream to you."

Shrugging, the woman took a sip of her coffee. She racked her brain for a better answer than the one she gave, even after the words had left her mouth. "I've been there for two years now," was her solid response, not at all addressing John's enthusiasm.

John noticed.

"You don't like it?"

"It's not that," she said quickly. Panicking, Monty frowned. Had the time come—_already?_—to tell him about the restaurant? The ever-growing lump in her stomach told her otherwise. "It's just… my college degree is in the culinary arts, and I really should be in the kitchen. That's what I'm used to, anyway."

"Have you ever held a culinary position before?"

"Yes." Her voice teetered. It was awkward now, speaking about her past, brimming so close to the reality of it all… Monty was scared. Monty was scared of the topic, and she could feel her body constricting with every word. She didn't hate John (in fact, he was incredibly friendly), but something about the conversation had taken a turn for the worst, verging towards a place she needed to run from.

She didn't want to abandon the mini-date, but there was no way Monty would keep herself so close to a topic so sensitive.

Her last resort would be first on her list.

"I worked in my family restaurant before I worked at the bookstore," she said finally, sucking in a breath. "I haven't cooked since."

Perhaps she assumed he was dumb. Perhaps she thought he would pry further, ask about her family's whereabouts and about why she'd left them. When he didn't, Monty felt herself doubling over inside.

"I'm sorry to hear that," John said tersely. "I bet you are a marvelous chef."

He'd noticed the barrier. He'd seen the "Do Not Enter" sign on the door.

Monty was stunned.

"Damn." As he checked his watch, he poured the remaining contents of his coffee into his mouth. Monty simply watched. "I'm sorry, ma'am," he said, looking up at her, "but this is the part where I leave the princess. I coach baseball down at St. Swithin's, and I've only got fifteen minutes to drive across town." He flashed a chagrinned smile. "Forgive me for my hasty departure?"

Though still lost in a whirlwind of shock, Monty managed to swallow back the feeling and nod. "Of course! Duty calls, right?"

As if he were touched by an inside joke, the thin man pulled another brand of smile, this one complete with pursed lips and closed eyes. "Yes, ma'am, it does. I _am_ sorry, though." He pulled his jacket from the seat and tugged it over his arms, pausing to study her. "Is it all right if I ask to see you again sometime? This Tuesday?" His cheeks beamed in red. "I… I like talking to you, and I'd like another chance to spend more time with you."

"Tuesday," Monty echoed, dipping her head. "I get off from work at five, so… dinner?"

"Dinner. Would you like me to pick you up?" He nervously wrung his hands as he led her to the café door, hurrying to open it for her. "Or… is that too…"

She laughed and stepped outside. "That sounds perfect, John."

"Six?"

"Perfect."

He stuck his hands in his jacket pockets and started to back away. "Well… thank you, Monty… thank you for calling me." He hesitated. "Thanks for giving a lowly cop the time of day."

Of course she gave him the time of day. Of course Monty took the change openly, securing a new companion and reaching out to regain control of her life. Gone were the days of loneliness. Gone were the hours filled with tears, the melancholy moments dripped in remorse and regret.

Desperately, Monty hoped that John was someone she could count on for longer than five years.

"No problem, John," she returned. "Thank you for noticing me."

Tapping two fingers to his forehead, he offered her a playful salute. "I will see you this Tuesday?"

"Yeah. I'll text you my address." The corner of her lips twitched. "See you, John."

The man, thickly swallowing, bit his lip and pivoted around, still bracing his fists inside his pockets and hunching somewhat to elude the wind. When he reached his car, John hopped inside and drove off.

Monty watched.

"Good job, Monty," she murmured to herself. "Good for you. Good job taking initiative and calling the guy. You won't regret it."

Monty was stunned to feel the same "inside joke" smile emerge on her lips, the same one that had only minutes ago touched his.

Shaking her head, the woman headed to her car.

_I like change._

* * *

**A/N: Ehhh... this is certainly not one of my favorite chapters. I don't think it has enough juice in it...**_  
_

**Sorry about the long wait! A new addiction has come over me (Portal) and it's been giving me writer's block... not to mention my AP English class is kicking my butt with those damn prompts. Seriously, I don't mind the class at all, but writing THAT MUCH in a 45 minute time period takes a toll on my need to write.**

**TDKR is coming up soon, so be prepared!**

**(Just as I write this, the Danny Elfman Batman theme starts playing on Pandora Radio... HOORAY FOR COINCIDENCES!)**

**Please review?**

**Question: Who do you think Monty should end up with in the end? John or Bruce... or neither? Opinions are always considered!**


	17. Booker

**Bat Appétit**  
A _Batman Begins/Dark Knight/Dark Knight Rises_ Fanfic by SouthernImagineer/ecto1B  
Chapter Seventeen - dedicated to Frank Sinatra, because I honestly cried earlier when I heard him sing.

* * *

"Few things help an individual more than to place responsibility upon him, and to let him know that you trust him." – Booker T. Washington

Tuesday was an easy day, a day that came softly against the Gotham air and darkened just as the city's events came to a peak and crested against the sky. And when the moon crept further and further upwards, drenching the busy island in its glow, a true metropolis emerged. Lights and sirens surfaced. Pedestrians and paupers swarmed. Nightlife began its cautious undertow and welcomed all into its ominous grasp, stretching long fingers across each street and against each alleyway. Like a skilled Casanova teasing its latest lover, these evening fingers stroked Gotham into submission until it purred and cried; this was not what Gotham wanted, however, and it was determined to fight back. For years, the city reigned beneath mob hands and above the law. How could it accept the moonlight's ministrations? Reflexively, its defense system attempted to send handfuls of crooks and thieves to combat the invasion of calm night, but the attempt was futile, and the venture was lost.

And night seized Gotham as its own.

* * *

She sipped her Pinot Noir like it was nothing, with the stem propped delicately between two fingers and the bowl cupped like a rose in her palm. Every so often, the clear lip found her mouth and deposited the dark liquid inside, but only with subtle movements and timed precision did this occur. Wine truly appeared as a luxurious bonus to a connoisseur's lifestyle when she drank; like a professional wine taster, she swirled, sniffed, and sampled it, smiling all the way.

John felt as if he were watching an ad on TV.

"So." Setting the glass down—interrupting the imagined commercial—and interlocking her fingers, Monty De Luca stared across the table at John. Her tone was clement below the faint murmur of dinner patrons around them. "Mister John Blake. Why don't we start with the basics? We've already covered casual topics and whatnot. We should…" she hesitated, but John had a feeling the words had been on her tongue the whole time, "… _explore_ the facts. Discover things about each other!" Here, she gave a short laugh, a laugh resembling a feigned cough. "I mean, what else is there to do on our first formal date? We have to start somewhere!" Monty was speaking against the goblet's rim now, hiding a smile. "John Blake. _Officer._" She laughed at the added formality. "Tell me. What makes you _you_?"

Was her smile a sign that she noticed his interest? Had she seen the way he'd watched her sip the wine? John had no idea. Already, she had managed to entrance him with gentle quips and pleasant smiles; they were an hour into their first "formal" date, and at this point, he was willing to accept the inevitable and carry on. It had been a while since John embarked back into the dating scene (his partner, Ross, set him on a few blind dates in the past, but none had progressed). Desperately, he hoped this one—a date he'd technically arranged himself—would be more successful.

Realizing he'd remained silent all that time, John coughed and steadily responded with a question of his own. "It depends. What would you like to know about me?"

"Age?"

"Twenty-eight."

Monty pursed her lips, taking another sip of wine. If his age bothered her, she made no other motion to address it… in that instant, John suddenly wondered if she was older than he was.

She surely didn't look it.

"Have you always lived in Gotham?"

"Born and raised here."

"Religious beliefs?"

"Baptist."

He saw her eyes twinkle a bit as she dove for an offhand question. "Favorite sport?"

"Baseball," he fired back almost instantly. Now, John grinned. Her expression requested an explanation. "My father was originally from Boston, and I inherited the Red Sox side of him. When the season picks up, I try to watch every Sox game, and I can get pretty crazy."

"Huh." She tilted her head. "I pegged you as a soccer fan."

"Soccer doesn't compare. Trust me." John slid a hand up and down his neck to loosen the muscles there. "America's pastime is my drug."

Monty smirked a bit. He saw her eyes dart down to something below the table—her cell phone, he assumed. "You were in Barnes and Noble… you an avid reader?"

"A bibliophile."

She let out a surprised laugh.

"What?" he asked defensively, attempting to hide the smile on his face. The sound of her laughter pleased him greatly. "I've got a bookshelf at my apartment! I collect books!"

"I'm sorry," she gasped, clutching her chest. "I just—I just didn't expect that word!"

John was a good man with righteous morals and a common smile, raised into an idealistic demeanor and taught to always act like a gentleman in front of lady companions. This time, however, being in the presence of someone so lighthearted and lively gave John an extra pair of wings, propelling him to act slightly out of character.

He hoped she didn't mind.

Feigning distress, John put on his best pout and pulled his knees to his chest. "I like that word," he mumbled childishly, holding the cartoonish frown and aiming it at her. "_Bibliophile_."

Much to his surprise, Monty responded well. "Bibliophile," she repeated, beaming. "It's a great word, John! I wasn't expecting it!" Noticing the phony frown, Monty echoed that, as well. "Aww. Did I hurt your feelings? I'm sorry!"

_She doesn't mind silly_ he remarked inwardly.

_Good_.

"What are you reading now?" she inquired.

"I just finished Dan Brown's _The Da Vinci Code_, and I'm planning on starting _Angels and Demons_ when I have the time." Lowering his feet back to the floor, John began to notice his stomach rumbling. Briefly, he glanced over his shoulder, searching for the waiter. "Jeez. The food is taking a while. If I had known it'd take so long…"

Monty offered a shrug. "If they're making the food right, we should be happy. Italian food is…" she paused, kissing her fingertips dramatically, "a work of art, shall we say? It takes time."

"Time."

"Yes."

John ran a hand through his dark hair. "I know I might've mentioned this before, but I still can't understand how a culinary student could give up cooking, just like that." Even though her face transformed dramatically at his words, he went on. "I mean, I'm sure you have your reasons, but I bet you're a fantastic cook. You sound so _passionate _about it. Why stop? Why let something stop you from doing what you love?"

She didn't respond. He waited.

"Monty?"

Though darkened with an emotion John could not pinpoint, Monty's eyes returned to meet his. She had been staring down at the tablecloth as the silence dragged, and now, painfully, she seemed to acknowledge him. "Sorry. I'm being rude," Monty mumbled softly. She shook herself and let out a heavy sigh, scooping her glass into the air and taking another sip. "I… don't particularly want to talk about that right now, actually. Doing so would…"—faltering, she cleared her throat—"… _ruin our date_."

John, slightly stunned, frowned. She was acting incredibly protective, even after the two had connected at the café, and even after spending an hour together at the restaurant. Before, when the topic had surfaced, John had made sure not to delve too far. This time, however, he'd assumed the setting was right. _Apparently not. _"All right," he finally murmured into his drink. "I'm… sorry for intruding." His voice was cutthroat, concise, and accidentally revealing. "Let's change topics, shall we?"

Monty studied him for a moment.

John raised his eyebrows.

"Something wrong?"

She shook her head.

"It's nothing." Coughing, Monty rested her hands on the table before her, an act that screamed of symbolism.

"So."

Her lips pursed.

"Where were we?"

* * *

He was driving her home when she finally spoke.

"I did it for family."

John's fingers tensed on the steering wheel, but he made no motion to interrupt her, and he made no motion to display confusion, either. He knew there was something she was hiding, something she couldn't trust him with yet, and the undercurrent of this knowledge had essentially ruined their date—even though Monty had opted not to. Her restraint, firmly holding her tongue, forced John to awkwardly carry the weight of the conversation all night. And now, after two hours, just as the small Honda Accord rolled to a stoplight, Monty De Luca was about to spit the truth.

He didn't know whether to be angry or grateful.

"I was in love with a wonderful man," she went on, softly pressing into each syllable. "I had the perfect job. I worked at my family's restaurant. Everyone loved me. I came to work early and left late. I made food that customers loved. I _was_ a fantastic cook. I was industrial and precise, devoted to my work, but ultimately faithful to my family. For them, I'd do anything and everything." She hesitated, and when John glanced over, he saw the woman blink back tears. "I _did_ do everything, and I barely noticed when it turned and bit me in the ass."

John took a breath and kept listening.

"I met Bruce Wayne's butler one day during lunch," she said.

John widened his eyes at the name. Bruce Wayne… the man John suspected of being the Batman. Monty had connections to him?

He remained silent, eager to hear more.

"Alfred came in to eat. I waited on him. We had a wonderful conversation; he was so kind to me, so understanding. He appreciated my hard work." Monty's head tilted against the window as she worried her lip. "He knew exactly why I toiled away at the family restaurant, day in and day out. I _love_ my family. He recognized that." She sighed heavily, heavily enough for her shoulders to fall. "And then, a few weeks later, there was that explosion next door, the one the Joker caused, that carried into our restaurant and killed people…" Her body quaking, Monty reached forward and gripped the dashboard. "It damaged us. It damaged the business, the building, our family, and our way of life. Losing people like that… losing customers… my grandfather could barely take it.

"And then a friend of mine came up with an idea, an idea to save us. An idea to raise enough money to repair the restaurant and put us back in the swing of things. I agreed to do it. My family agreed to it. And I became the cog to set everything in motion."

Her head pivoted to look at him, and John flinched in surprise.

"That's when I met Bruce Wayne."

She took a second to catch her breath, and John entered with a question. "I thought he was in hiding? I thought he escaped the public eye? No one's seen him in years. How did you meet him?"

"Alfred, his butler, wanted me to make an Italian dinner for Bruce to cheer him up one night. I brought the meal to him, met him, spoke with him for a while. I offered to make a new dish every week and bring it to him… that was my family's plan—_my _plan—for saving the restaurant."

A shudder ran down John's spine.

He knew what the plan was.

He knew what she meant.

"His money."

"His money," Monty confirmed softly. "Yes. That's what it was. His money would save my family's livelihood. I _had_ to."

As John urged the car forward, he glanced over and saw that she'd raised her hands. They were as high as her neck, and her eyes studied them furiously.

"It was something I just had to do. I did it for them."

She looked at him.

"You must understand that."

It took a moment for John to respond. He was still trying to grasp the gravity of it all. Monty had, in a sense, exploited the wealthy playboy to reap funds for the restaurant. She had done so willingly and completely aware of the act's dishonest nature; she had also done so with noble intentions, aiming to relieve her flesh and blood of their suffering. John was disgusted by her readiness to misuse Wayne, but he also felt sympathy towards her unselfish act—

"I didn't want to tell you," she said quickly, interrupting him from his ruminations. Now her hands were down, and her cheeks, once delicately concealed in blush, dripped with salt water. "I like you. You came up to me and made me smile… you shared a lovely dinner with me… I didn't want you to hate me."

"I don't hate you," John said at once, dragging the car up to another streetlight and reaching for her hand; he squeezed it tightly, knowing she appreciated the gesture. It was a bold move, especially for a first (second, technically?) date, but he felt the moment called for some empathy. "I understand what you did, and why you did it."

She was wiping away the tears when he squeezed her hand again. He wanted a reply. "Monty, you are not a bad person. Family is important. You did what you thought was best for them." When she didn't respond, he pressed onward. "I know how it feels, doing something in honor of your family. It's tough, but you do it anyway because you know how much it'll help." When she gave him a baffled, tearful look, he explained. "I lost my mom when I was four, and then my dad four years later. For them, I became a police officer. For them, I chose to fight for justice. For them…" he hesitated, swallowing, "… I did everything and gave up everything. I did it for family. Like you."

Monty squeezed his hand back. "I'm sorry," she sniffed. "This doesn't hurt your view of me, does it?" Faintly, she chuckled. "I'm really beginning to like you."

"This only makes me respect you even more, ma'am," he smiled. They were pulling up to her apartment now, sliding up to the building and coming to a gentle stop at the sidewalk. John quickly went to open her car door for her. "This won't be our last date." He helped her out of the car, and widened his eyes when she hugged him. "I promise."

Pulling back from the hug, she wiped at her cheek again and nodded. "Good. Call me. I'm up for anything." He saw her lips quiver. "Th-Thank you for listening to me. I really appreciate it. And thank you for the dinner. It was fantastic."

Much to John's dismay, it was much too early in the relationship to go in for the kiss. He hid his disappointment behind a smile. "Any time, ma'am—_Monty_."

At last, she giggled. It was a tentative sound, but it was enough to make John's smile grow into itself. "I'll see you soon," she said, backing towards her apartment. "Bye, John."

When she had at last vanished inside, John turned back to the car, his head in the clouds.

_What a night_.

* * *

**A/N: At the current moment, we are exploring Monty's evolution between Bruce and John. We are seeing how she reacts to confrontation and changes. And, because of this, TDKR is on the horizon, but it is not yet here. I thought everyone should be aware of that, just in case you were wondering!**

**I have a plan of chapters 18-23 so far... and 21 will be the first day of TDKR... if things stay the same!**

**Oh! More news! I just finished beta-reading the revamped first chapter of _xTune_'s "Horrible Relations." Keep on the look out for when she posts the revamped story, okay? She's a FANTASTIC writer, and she deserves your visit!**

**Some people are for Bruce, and some for John... huh. Interesting! (pets imaginary beard)**

**Theme song for this story? **

**Cheers!**


	18. Matt

**Bat Appétit**  
A _Batman Begins/Dark Knight/Dark Knight Rises_ Fanfic by SouthernImagineer/ecto1B  
Chapter Eighteen - dedicated to The Glitch Mob, the electronic musical sensation that practically handed me this chapter with their music.

* * *

**This story is M for a reason. That's all I'll say.**

"When authorities warn you of the sinfulness of sex, there is an important lesson to be learned. Do not have sex with the authorities." – Matt Groening

Monty swallowed a hasty meal and grabbed her purse from the couch. She stopped at the mirror by the door for a last-minute makeup examination—smudge-less and blotch-less, the brunette woman slid out the door with her jacket and braced herself for the December air. Her lace-up boots thwacked against each step on the way down; while one hand hovered above the railing, the other scurried to button the black Barbour jacket that billowed atop her sweater. It was too chilly to venture outside without multiple layers, what with the occasional shipment of snow to New England, and Monty had been wise to choose her belted coat over the knockoff one she'd bought from Wal-Mart. Staying warm—withholding heat, most importantly—was difficult enough under the circumstances, but managing to remain voguish at the same time gave Monty the most trouble.

Wal-Mart just wouldn't cut it when it came to that.

Not that John minded. He was the one person Monty strived to impress, and, incidentally, the one man that frankly didn't care. He disregarded her embarrassment when she wore old jeans and coats, perhaps knowing full well what it felt like to penny-pinch (both held average jobs that paid modest sums; sometimes Monty wondered if she, the bookkeeper, earned more than he, the police sergeant), and instead made an effort to dote on her weathered warmth and vanilla aroma whenever he could. This ability to courteously ignore the downsides to her daily appearance was one of the many facets that combined to form the steadfast, idealistic John Blake.

The two had been on several dates since their bookstore encounter. While John chose quaint bistros and hole-in-the-wall diners he'd loved since childhood, Monty opted for the bigger, crowded restaurants, desperate to see John in unrestricted locale, anxious to see how the man handled the hoi polloi of Gotham (because of Bruce? Because of how he had locked himself away and glossed over reality? She never saw him in public before… Monty assumed that was the reason behind her requests with John). How did John speak to disgruntled and overworked wait staff? How would he react when the place was busy and food didn't arrive for an hour? For some reason, Monty took pleasure in seeing him in the open, and she didn't regret it.

This night, however, would be immensely different. As December moored into quiet, frosted nights and Gotham neared its Christmas, John's birthday came into full view. And despite Monty's proclivity of public dates, she decided to make the occasion a private one. That was why she left her apartment when she did; that was why she ducked into a nearby grocery, intent on something she hadn't done in two years.

Dinner.

The idea had been in her mind for quite some time now. What better way to shrug Bruce from her shoulders than to get up and _cook_ again? She and John had already declared themselves to be in the 'dating' stage, much unlike how it occurred with Bruce, who struck forth into the relationship years after first meeting. Was it not _right_ to move past this and bring out the chef's hat? Monty contemplated this as she strolled up and down each isle, squinting against the dim lights and ferreting for the ingredients on her list; her fingers found each bottle and box with tender excitement. Like a junkie on the horizon of his next hit, eyes wide, wrist at the ready, Monty compiled her arsenal of supplies into the plastic basket on her arm. This was good for her. Bruce snapped to the back of her mind; John came forward to replace him, a standard, crinkled grin on his face, his eyes thin and his dimples vast. Without shame, he strode importantly to center stage, curiously inquiring about how Monty intended to go about surprising him. And Monty, now attempting to shield a smile from the other store patrons, silently giggled and went on with her shopping.

They'd met in October, and already her head swam with lurid visuals of the young cop. It was hard to get used to, but Monty quickly caught herself prattling to John's redolent image within her head at random times a day.

He completed her, and if that was the case, then he was worth cooking for.

Monty completed her shopping (the ingredients for chicken Parmesan were not alone in her basket; a few candles, a box of tampons, and a rather provocative bottle of body wash for John joined them) and exited the store, bags lining her outstretched arms. The plastic dug against her jacket's black material as she walked, and she paled at the sting, partially slipping in some snow before regaining her balance and continuing forward. Once the groceries had found sanctuary in the backseat of her car, she pulled the Toyota from the curb and sped off in the direction of John's apartment, eager to get started.

Eventually, Monty found his street. The doddering brownstone he called home stood amongst its uniform brothers and tried to evade detection, but Monty wasn't fooled. She took the first of two empty parking spaces beside it and hauled her stash inside.

John wasn't home, of course. Even on his birthday, the police sergeant knew his job was important to the people of Gotham. He'd insisted on meeting Monty after work for dinner… in a sense, he would be, but there was no need clarifying things.

Monty promised a reservation in his honor. She never specified what kind.

She flicked on the lights and entered the apartment, admiring her boyfriend's relative cleanliness. The white walls, white carpet, and white appliances blurred against clashing furniture types—John went to college for criminal justice, not interior design. Still, pieces of the home remained cluttered, like the coffee table, and Monty resolved to tidy up, as well, once dinner had been fixed.

When every bag had found a spot atop the kitchen counter, Monty went to work.

* * *

"Do you need me to pick you up?" John tapped the speaker button and placed the phone on the dashboard, opting to leave his hands free for instinctive safety reasons. What kind of a birthday would it be if he spent it at Gotham General—or worse, stuffed six feet under? "I can be there in five minutes."

"_I'm already at your apartment_," the woman replied, a smile bracing her voice. "_Dinner's been arranged, too, so don't worry. This will be a night you'll never forget, birthday boy._"

He didn't doubt it. "You're too good to me, Monty. Really." Swallowing, John flicked on the heater and drummed his fingers on the wheel. "I'm excited."

"_How was work?_"

"Tiring. I won't bore you with the details."

"_Try me._"

"Too boring!"

"_Bore me at dinner, then,_" she snapped playfully. "_I need to keep up to date on how things are going in the Narrows. It's dangerous over there, and I have to make sure you're staying safe. I expect a full report!_" John could almost visualize Monty wagging a finger at him, giggling. "_Got it?_"

John pulled his cruiser to the next intersection and came to a stop. He grinned. "Yes ma'am. I promise. Full report."

"_Good. See you in five?_"

"Of course."

"_Bye!_"

"Bye, Monty."

John ended the call and tossed the phone onto the passenger's seat, wondering what Monty De Luca had in store. Still posed at the stoplight, the man snuck a glance at himself in the overhead mirror, examining his hair and the way it sat messily atop his head. A fastidious combing-through with his fingers and it was perfect.

The light turned green, and the police car lurched forward.

* * *

She hadn't stopped smiling since he called. Scrambling around the apartment, Monty finished putting everything away and readying the place for his arrival. She stuffed the vacuum back into the closet, wiped down the kitchen counter, and fixed her makeup, glancing over to admire her work as she applied concealer. A steaming plate of chicken Parmesan waited at the two-person dinner table, paired with napkins and silverware, while a single evergreen-scented candle illuminated the dark of the room.

_Perfect._

Monty had also managed to sneak the body wash into the shower for John. In a sense, it was all part of her master plan… a plan she was saving until the right time to initiate.

_I mean, that Irish Spring stuff smells _so_ damn good._

She had just finished fixing her makeup when the apartment door clicked open. Hastily, she spun around, stuffing her cosmetic bag in her purse and strengthening her smile.

It was time. Time to remove Bruce from her brain. Time to swallow past the pain and reawaken herself from such a long sleep. She cooked. She smiled. She shoved away from the Wayne-induced heartache and pressed onward. Just as her father had broken from normality to help Grandpa De Luca with the restaurant, Monty would gather the fractured sections of herself and step into a new life, a life with John—her very own Prince Charming. Gotham and its new social tranquility would backdrop this move without the Batman to spur it along, and all would be well.

She was sure of it.

"Surprise!" she exclaimed, beaming as John stepped deeper into the apartment and gazed around, his jaw slack. He remained silent as she spoke, perhaps unable to verbalize his shock. "Just for you, birthday boy." Monty motioned to the table, and his eyes followed. "You told me that your father made the best chicken Parmesan. Now, I definitely can't compete with him, what with my lack of practice for the last two years, but I think you'll be heartily satisfied with Giada's recipe." When John still didn't speak, Monty began to worry. She backtracked. "I searched for your dad's recipe, but I came up empty. I don't think you saved it… I went looking in the cabinets and on the bookshelf a few days ago when you fell asleep before me… the best I could do was Giada's recipe." Now she pouted. "I'm sorry I—"

John had thin, firm, wonderful lips that delivered kisses like panegyrics. He interrupted her by fastening them to her plump ones and weaving his hands around her waist.

"You are glorious, Monty," he murmured into the kiss. "This is perfect. You cooked for me… you told me you would never do it again, and yet, you did it for me, on my birthday." His lips went up and found her nose. "Chicken Parmesan… you listened to my story. My father—" John paused, clearing his throat, "—would be so proud right now."

Gently, Monty squeezed him closer, letting her senses bathe in his scent.

"Good."

Dinner turned into an hour-long affair, complete with cultured badinage and the occasional flirtation. John recounted his day in the Narrows, while Monty explained her reasons behind her cooking.

It was the latter that did them in.

"So what made you decide to cook for me tonight?" The subsection of conversation began quite innocently, with John's question leading him into a casual smile. Both had finished their meal, and now the couple leaned back in their chairs, discoursing for as long as they could.

Monty, unlike John, grew uneasy at the inquiry. She took a sip of wine. "You want the truth?"

"I'd love to hear it," he replied. "It was such an unexpected gift."

Taking a deep breath, the woman decided to hash it out. There was no point in disguising her motive. "I've moved on," she said, and John's eyes widened, perhaps alarmed by her choice of words. "No, not from you," Monty added quickly. "From Bruce. I cooked for him every week, you know, and when we stopped seeing each other, I didn't cook." The last few drops of wine fell into her open mouth, and she paused, gazing across at him. "I thought I should prove to you where my allegiance lies by cooking for you, showing you that I'm…" she hesitated, biting her lip, "… _ready_ to move on. I'm up for this new relationship… I want to put everything into it." She motioned to their empty plates. "Not only was I inspired by your story about your dad, but I needed something to cook, and what's better on your birthday than a home cooked meal?"

John grinned. "Nothing." He leaned forward, going for her hand and squeezing it. "That's a big commitment you're making to me, Monty. Giving up Bruce… I never asked you to do it." His eyes drew into muted orbs of glass, understanding. "I know what he meant to you."

Monty knew she'd told him too quickly. He never should have known her connection to Bruce—that night, the night she confessed everything, he was not ready to hear her woes or see her cry. It was too early in the relationship for such dramatic knowledge to be revealed, and Monty knew this. She had been afraid, deeply afraid, that telling him would tarnish any chance of harnessing normalcy as they continued to date. The motion of telling him, so much like Monty's fiasco with Bruce, had been done with honorable intentions, aiming to stabilize and help others through the built-up of trust. Would the outcomes become similar, however, ending in complete disaster? Had John registered everything she'd said and taken the news negatively?

Monty was absolutely wrong. If anything, the relationship had strengthened because of her confession, and now, in John's subtle gaze, everything was clear.

"I'm forgetting about him, John," she said finally. "I have to. _You_ are my now." Lightly, her fingers wove in between his. "It's my birthday gift to you. Bruce is gone. I'm yours."

The man pursed his lips, running his thumb across her fingers and studying her intently.

"And the Batman?" he asked tentatively. "What about him?"

It had become apparent that both knew of the Dark Knight's alter ego—the story of John's discovery was baffling. Either it was _incredibly_ obvious, or John was _incredibly_ smart.

"You're my protector now," she murmured. "The Batman isn't needed any more. Not in my eyes."

That was enough to satisfy him.

They were silent as they cleared the table and washed the dishes; John stood at the sink, his hands immersed in the large casserole pot Monty used to make the tomato sauce, while Monty busied herself with drying duty. She could still smell the evergreen candle from the dinner table, and the scent saddened her. She dried their plates without a word, and then slowly, timidly stepped up behind John.

"You okay?"

John continued moving the sponge around in the pot, wiping the edges clean. His only reaction came when Monty slid her hands to his shoulders and began massaging the skin there, the skin hidden behind his thick blue sweater.

"I'm fine," he said indistinctly, groaning a bit. "_God_, that feels nice." The sponge fell into the pot, splashing its contents from the sink. "R-Right there, Monty. God."

Now the woman smirked. Her fingers kneaded patterns along the lines of bone and muscle. "Your shoulders are so tense from sitting in that cruiser all day, John. You need this. You should let me do this more often."

"Wh-Whenever you want, dear."

Monty pressed her nose into the back of his sweater. The cogs in her head spun faster and faster as the ideas trickled in, and when she remembered the body wash, her smile grew.

"You smell," she finally giggled, hoping her words would urge him to shower. "I can't massage you if you smell like sweat."

In response, the man spun around and kissed her head. "Fine. I'll shower."

_Yes._

"More massages when I get out? Maybe a movie?" His face brightened. "How about _The Untouchables_? I haven't seen that movie in years. We should watch it."

Laughing, Monty genuflected. "As you wish, birthday boy."

_Not really._

The look on his face was one of utter bliss. He kissed her once more and then retreated to the bathroom, his socked feet padding across the carpet and vanishing behind the door as he shut it. For a moment, Monty remained still, listening to the sounds he made as he stripped down and turned on the shower, but as the water hammered down within the room she could not see, the woman closed her eyes and initiated an inner soliloquy. It was the usual monologue, recapitulating the important details, delineating the process, step-by-step, inciting necessary panache, enough to actually foment the desired results, and reviewing any and all caveats. Painstakingly, her mind combed the scheme for errors, weeding blemishes left and right and hoping, just hoping, John would go along with it.

Monty wanted his birthday to be perfect.

"Hey, Monty?" John was calling from the bathroom. "Did you buy me this new body wash?"

She restrained an answer.

"Monty?"

At last, the woman's perspicacity triumphed, and Monty inched across the apartment, throwing her jacket on the couch nearby and taking a moment to control her breathing. A breath in, a breath out, and Monty turned the handle to the bathroom.

She stepped inside.

"_Monty_!" Before she even had a chance to look up, John's voice trumpeted from behind the shower's roar, and instinctively he dove to hide himself from her. When she met his eyes, she noticed his cheeks had turned red—as dark as the tomato sauce on the chicken Parmesan. "Wh-What are you doing?"

She didn't feel like words were necessary. Keeping eye contact, Monty shut the door behind her and gripped the hem of her white sweater, peeling it from her body and pitching it on the floor beside John's own pile of clothes.

"O-Oh."

Her lace-up boots weren't there to complicate things as she wiggled out of her lilac-colored pants, letting them fall and kicking them to the side.

"Monty…"

Only when Monty stood completely bare before him did she speak.

"Yes?"

Both of John's hands were pressed against the glass.

"You—"

"It's your birthday, after all," she grinned, approaching the shower door and fiddling with the handle. "May I come in?" Hesitantly, she gulped. "I meant what I said about my readiness to move on with my life, John, and I—"

One of his slender hands maneuvered over and pushed the door open for her.

There were no words after that.

In a feverish haste, John managed to secure the woman's body as tightly to his as was physically possible beneath the showerhead's spray. Kisses bled in sexual tension, tension that had existed ever since the first date, the first kiss, the first innocent touch. Moans struck a vendetta with one another and butchered coherency within both parties. John's adroit hands illustrated this fierce battle on her skin, clutching her thighs, her waist, her hands, coiling wordlessly into the sopping mass of hair on her head. Monty, in turn, aimed to humor him with her talents—her fingernails sketched desperate designs along his torso and stomach, forcing the young man to toss back his head and garble nonsense to the Deity above. And as the water plummeted into this archaic grip, dousing the skins below, Monty and John found themselves lost in a world of Gotham's creation. Nothing could touch them; a triumphant peace had knitted along the streets and skylines, descending into the small apartment, kindling a new life stage and coaxing them onward.

Life had found a way.

Minutes of frantic foreplay and distorted cries led to suckling lips and lunging hands. Monty felt herself being hoisted into the air, her back meeting the tile wall and her legs hugging John's waist.

"Thank you," John muttered against the dip of her breasts, "for the best birthday of my life."

Monty quirked an eyebrow and scraped her nails through his hair. He reeked of the body wash: all the more reason her female intuition succumbed to him so rapidly. It was a _sexy_ smell.

"It isn't over yet," she whined, biting her lip.

"You're right."

He arched his back, returning to her lips and melding his tongue in her mouth.

"Let's go."

The water shut off with a careless swipe of John's hand. They stumbled through the shower and bathroom doors, failing to care about their nakedness and the windows in the TV room, and collapsed together on the bed. Instantly, the comforter grew soggy, but neither lover cared.

The last coherent thought in the room was about protection, and that was taken care of with little judgment.

Kisses were now violent acts of God. Monty was on her back as John hurried to overtake her, creating a red trail of lovebites along the way to her mouth. And while John ground into her, her name brazen on his lips with every stroke, Monty let the marred image of Bruce vacate her head. The past easily left her, replaced by this new encroachment, shredded by John's kisses and sounds. It was lust that filled the breach, but Monty knew it was not alone. For in that split second when both partners met their most primal of phases, in that split second when his name and her name melded in the air as one synonymous scream, the emotion that discharged within the bedroom was anything but libidinous.

It was love that found them there in the dark of Gotham's night.

* * *

**A/N: To quote my sister after she read a bit of this chapter...**

**OH HO HO.**

**You were probably not expecting that, were you? Well, neither was I. My plans for this story have been dramatically shortened because of this chapter, and TDRK will be coming even sooner than previously expected. All in all, this is actually really good for all of us, eh?  
**

**This is the closest thing I've ever written to a full-blown lemon... I think I did okay...? Constructive criticism for future (possible) lemons would be greatly appreciated! I'm always looking to improve!**

**Thanks for reading! Please review!**

**Cheers!**


	19. William

**Bat Appétit**  
A _Batman Begins/Dark Knight/Dark Knight Rises_ Fanfic by SouthernImagineer/ecto1B  
Chapter Nineteen - dedicated to the creators of Back to the Future, because you make my life so much more splendid.

* * *

"By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes." – William Shakespeare

"So." A pair of soft eyes and an impish smirk lanced a perfect hole through his chest. "Are we going to discuss what happened?" She fingered the waistband of _his_ boxers that sat around _her_ hips—a lucky prize from his dresser—and studied him further. When he didn't answer, she prompted him with a soft "Well?" and pursed her lips. "Don't tell me you lost your voice."

John could only release a breath of hot air from his lungs in response. He had _not_ lost his voice; he just had trouble deciding on which words to use in such a cumbersome encounter. The wrong ones would most likely send Monty out the door, coat in hand, either fuming or in tears. The right ones… perhaps the right words would win him another night? Another unbridled evening experience to look forward to? Maybe he was on his way to finding Monty's core—maybe there was a chance at securing a long-term relationship… all relied on his first words of the day.

He had to choose them carefully.

At last, John coughed through the morning build-up in his throat. "We can discuss it," he murmured. His hands curled around his coffee mug, praying for warmth, and he gazed at her. "What's there to discuss, though? I thought everything was pretty straightforward. You ambushed me in the shower, and then we found our way to the bedroom." He paused. "Which reminds me. The comforter is soaked. I should toss that in the wash before I leave—"

"I just wanted to be certain you didn't mind it," Monty said quickly, interrupting him from changing topics. Was that a faint smile he saw, peeking from the rim of her cup? "I hope you don't think anything was forced upon you; I didn't mean to 'ambush' you—"

He sputtered into his drink. "N-No! It w-wasn't! I… I wanted that, too, h-honestly." A sheepish echo drew crinkles beside his eyes, betraying his attempt at smothering a smile. "It was a good birthday present. The dinner, too." He cleared his throat again. "I mean…" she giggled, and he flushed once more, "everything, Monty. I loved it all." John lifted a casual hand up to scratch his neck. "Did… you… even _plan it_ like that? The meal, the body wash that was waiting in the shower… it all worked out pretty well for you, didn't it?"

Her second snicker was enough evidence. "It did, and yes, I did plan it like that. We're in a good stage of our relationship, John. We met in October… two months have gone by, and I learn something new about you every day. It's all progressive. Last night was a healthy step forward—at least in my mind."

Dipping his head, John set the mug down on the counter and went to pull the woman close. Instinctively, his eyes found the particular rivets and shapes on her body that he'd memorized the night before, watching as they billowed and dove against the makeshift outfit she wore and the bed hair that fell past her shoulders. There was a pause to his train of thought when he mentally undressed her; he regretting doing so, for his sweatpants were thick and oppressing at his groin.

_No, John, stop that. You have work! Don't rile yourself up._

"I'm glad you think so, too," he gritted.

It pained John when he had to leave—his shift was early, and he still had to pick up his partner, Ross. His cell phone sung with a concerto of "Where are you?" and "We're going to be late for work!" text messages while he got himself properly dressed (with Monty's help). Monty, too, pulled her yesterday clothes back on, determined to shower when she got home.

"I can stop by after we're both done with work. Maybe we can _actually _watch that movie you suggested last night. I promised, after all." She giggled, tugging her jacket over her sweater, and John, smirking, helped her button up.

"I think that's a spectacular idea. Do you want to meet for lunch? The usual spot?"

"Yes sir!" Grinning, Monty craned and kissed his nose. "Want to escort me to my car, officer? I'm gonna have a hell of a time wading through that snow."

"Snow?"

"Yeah." She pointed across the room at the living room window. "You didn't see it? It snowed last night!"

When John finally went to look, he finally noticed.

Gotham had put on a coat.

"I was too busy," he explained innocently, noting the whitened view outside. "I was focused on more important things!"

"_Riiight._ You know, for an officer of the law, you're pretty inattentive."

"Hey!" He smacked her arm and laughed. "Don't try me. I can have you arrested for disrespecting an officer."

She playfully rolled her eyes. "And then the cuffs would come out, and then we'd _really_ see the real John Blake, now wouldn't we?"

"Oh, hush." John's hand went for the front door, pulling it open and dipping his head. "I'll be happy to escort you through the snow, madam. And if it's too much for those legs of yours to handle, I'll gladly carry you. I won't tell a soul."

She flicked him on the head as she scurried past him. "Ladies and gentlemen, the comic stylings of John Blake. He'll be here all week."

John followed her down the stairs and to the apartment entrance, where she stopped and turned around. The snow was to her knees.

"No one needs to know what's about to happen," she muttered secretively.

"Mum's the word." John traced two fingers across his lips and tossed an imaginary key into the snow.

"Swear?"

"Swear."

She laughed as he scooped her into his arms and grunted. "I love our everyday banter, John. I'm glad you _have_ a sense of humor. I mean, we're lucky—"

"Monty?"

John's inquisitive tone snapped the casual conversation in half. He stopped plodding through the snow and paused beside her car, his gloveless grip growing firmer around her.

"Yes?" She was obviously stunned. "What's wrong?"

"Did you really mean it?"

He couldn't believe he was asking that question, but it had been on his mind all night. It protruded from his brain like a misplaced spear or javelin, annoyingly stuck, unmoving. Even afterward their bedroom raillery, as her fingernails curled against his chest, rhythmically massaging the muscles there, her body shivering and begging to be held, her eyes blinking and then shutting one last time… even after all that, John was unable to remove the question from his mind.

He had to know.

"Did I mean what?" Monty asked, frowning. She was clutching the collar of his jacket tightly now—_is she distressed by my sudden change in mood?_ John wondered. _Probably._

The man took a breath. "What you said."

"Huh?"

"About Bruce. Did you mean it?"

It took a moment, but soon her face registered with recognition. "Did I mean what I said about moving on? The stuff I said at dinner? Is that what you're asking about?"

"Yes." His voice quivered. "Did you?"

The woman, sighing, stepped down from his arms and into the snow. Like a magnet, she molded with his slender frame on impact, tucking her nose beneath his chin and her hands around his neck.

Her scent was there.

"John. I meant what I said. I'm going to invest everything I can into this relationship. It means _that_ much to me." She pulled away slightly, rubbing her lips along his cheekbone. "Bruce was a prominent part of my life. But so was my family. So was my friend, Curtis. I managed to sever my ties with them; who says I can't do the same to Bruce? Last night was the turning point for me. There's no going back for me now. You're it."

The hesitation that had prolonged his first question instantly disintegrated, and he asked another one (or tried to). "Did you and he ever—"

"Sleep together? I'd be lying if I said no. I don't want to regret it, either. I don't think I do," Monty murmured gently, and John could see the grief blatant on her face, ridden in her fallen brows and drooping mouth. "I've moved on, though, and I hope you accept that, for my sake. I'd also be lying if I denied loving him, but that's my past, and he and the Batman are no longer important in my mind. I don't love them. Not any more."

There was a faint shrug to her shoulders, an almost graphic display of hesitancy quickly paired with optimistic words.

"Gotham can survive without them. So can I."

* * *

"_Gotham can survive without them. So can I_."

John wasn't sure he believed her. Even as he stepped through the police station doors, his mind swam with doubt. He and Monty had cleanly parted ways, promising to meet up for lunch, but the expression she used still hung in the air.

Was Gotham really surviving without the Batman? Without Bruce Wayne? After Harvey Dent's death, the police force had "gained a backbone," as Ross often said, and criminal activity plummeted along with the change. Or had it? Were there things happening beneath the city's outer layer? What would happen if John tore through the hermetically sealed surface… would he find things he didn't expect? And would these things disappear if Batman made a comeback?

In that regard, John questioned the validity of Monty's statement. If Gotham was hiding things, was Montydoing the same? Was she _really_ surviving without the Batman?

It was still on his mind as he made his rounds through the Narrows. He and Ross were the neighborhood's beat cops, which forced them to familiarize themselves with the layout, the people, and the latest news. The two of them had built a militia of 'sources' for when things went out of control, and as they linked up with each on patrol, concern continued to bug John like a telemarketer. The prominence was always there, ever maddening, but John managed to shove it away for now.

Suddenly there were more important matters to attend to.

Their second-to-last contact, Boone, lived at the edge of their policing jurisdiction. He was an older fellow with plentiful gumption, unruly facial hair, and ears that picked up every incident in the Narrows. He was always willing to give the cops the information they required, so long as they remained courteous and didn't impinge upon the district's feigned concord.

It was Boone that broke the news first.

"Blake, Ross, thank God." It was almost a humorous sight, seeing the grizzled figure stomp down the snow-drenched steps and to the police car. When he reached the driver's side window, he heaved a breath and peeked in at the two policemen. "There was an incident last night in the building behind me. Laura, she lives there…" He gulped. "I-I think she's dead, Blake."

"Laura?" Ross echoed from the passenger's side. "The Laura we know? The Hispanic woman we helped?"

"I think she's Julien's prostitute, you know," Boone divulged. "Side job."

"I… didn't know that." John sent his partner a knowing glance, and then returned to the contact. "What happened, Boone? How do you know this?"

"The yelling. From what I heard, I think her old employer, Nathan—"

Ross was quick to interject. "Nathan? You're kidding. Her old employer? That's the guy that helped us last week, the guy that gave us all that info on the drug run."

"The same Nathan," Boone frowned. "I had no idea he was involved with Laura until he came storming down the sidewalk last night to find her. Anyway, he came back and killed 'em both, I think. Laura _and_ Julien. It was a huge commotion. Gunshots, too. Loads of 'em. Yelling went on until four this morning."

John heaved the shock from his body and pressed on. The names were more familiar that he wished. These were people he saw on a daily basis, men and women he kept firm connections with, and it was painful, hearing that a domestic dispute had occurred outside his presence.

"So you haven't heard from Julien since then?" John asked.

"Last time I saw him, he was heading up to Laura's apartment. No sign of him since. He could be dead, too, like I said. He didn't carry a gun with him." Boone hesitated. "He should have."

_Julien… Laura… I saw them both yesterday. And Nathan… he was improving. Seeking help. Although we haven't seen him in what, seven, eight days, I was sure he was doing fine. _Inwardly, John cursed. _God. Laura. A prostitute. She showed no signs. If we'd known… we would've helped her. How did we miss it?_

"We'll go investigate." John fixed his coat and exited the car, Ross following close behind. "We have to. We'll handle it." The three men started towards the building, carefully maneuvering through the snowdrifts in their way. "You hear everything, Boone. What were they screaming about?"

The old man kept his eyes on his feet as they walked. "Laura tended to Nathan for quite some time, until he stopped paying. She left him. When she really started needing money, she found Julien. Nathan found out, and you know how men are with their sex toys…" Boone put two fingers to his temple and made a grotesque sound. "Someone's definitely dead."

"How come no one reported the dispute?" Ross wanted to know.

"No one blabs on Nathan and lives," Boone responded prophetically. "You know how he was before his 'change.' No one messes with him. Hell, I chose to wait until you two got here. I don't want Nathan after my blood. Not after this."

They reached the building, and John put a hand on Boone's shoulder. "Thanks. We'll take it from here. You should get inside; the snow can't be good on your feet."

As always, Boone flashed both men a weary smile and dipped his head. "I do what I can to help officers of the law. Be careful up there. You don't know who's got the gun. Nathan could still be up there."

The climb up the steps was a shaky one, and the guns-at-the-ready slam through the apartment door was an adrenaline rush. John, with Ross at his side, crept through the apartment, eyes narrowed and Glock-17 bared tight in his grip.

It was awful.

John remembered visiting Laura's apartment once before, and he recalled its usual neatness. She didn't have much, but what she did own, Laura kept quite orderly. Everything had a place. From the small, mismatched coffee table to the potted plant she kept on the windowsill, the place Laura called home normally sat like a doll's house in one's eye. Even the carpet—the dark, blood red blanket of warmth beneath it all—was carefully manicured with an old vacuum Laura kept like a watchful sentinel against the wall.

Control kept Laura sane.

So when John and his partner shoved themselves through the door, neither man expected to see what they did.

_Absolute anarchy_.

A war of sorts had evidently engulfed the apartment. Accompanied by the rusty smell of blood, living room objects splayed along the couch and the tables, some smashed into the floor, others frail and uneven against nothingness. Paintings dangled—two had completely lost their grip and now found refuge with the other household objects. There was madness everywhere; nothing had a place any longer.

One thing was certain: a fight had broken out.

"GCPD!" John called through the apartment, his voice deep with authority. "Show yourself!" He stepped lightly over the rug, wincing as his snow-ridden boots stained the red below. Laura wouldn't like—

"John."

Ross lowered his gun and pointed to a form beside the couch, a form that blended well against the crimson carpet, a form tucked beneath a fallen stack of newspapers.

"It's Julien."

The man was spread on his side, his limbs a mangled mess and his face turned inward to face the front door. Blood caked his agape mouth. His eyes were shut; they, too, had tasted the splatter of blood somehow, perhaps from his fall… or perhaps the blood belonged to someone else…

Hesitantly, John studied him.

"Call… for backup…"

The words were like glue in his teeth.

Instantly, he ran for the bedroom. He didn't know what prompted this swift course of action; the thought of death was a substantial precursor, but it hadn't been enough to spur his flight.

He ran either way.

"Laura! _Laura_!" The pistol was hot in his hands as he shoved the door open, directing it around the room with fluid movements, hoping he wouldn't have to shoot anything—

No matter what happened, John knew everything would be all right.

It had to be.

* * *

"_She was on the bed_," he stuttered through the speaker. "_Dead. Beaten, bruised, dead. I couldn't—I didn't know what to do, Monty. That's… the one downside to being a beat cop. You never know what awaits you. It h-horrifies me. I have tough skin, and it still horrifies me._" With a choke, he went on. "_There's no getting used to that._"

Monty felt like crying into the receiver. "And the killer?"

"_Patrols are searching for him now._"

"Good. Thank God. You all right?"

"_I'll survive. Can we… still meet for lunch?_ _I need… to see you._"

"S-See me?"

There was a long pause. "_… I don't want to talk about it._"

"Oh."

"_I'll see you in a few minutes?_"

"Yes."

"_Good. Bye._"

"Bye."

The other line disconnected with a forceful click.

"Damn."

Monty pressed her palms into the countertop and hung her head.

Maybe she was wrong.

* * *

**A/N: Whoopsie-daisy! My bad! I've been kind of preoccupied lately... went up north to visit my best friends, ate myself to death on Thanksgiving Day, and now I am currently in my basement in slippers and a huge winter jacket, freezing my butt off.**

**Also, Assassin's Creed 3 was a thing. So. Yeah. Connor Kenway... I'd marry that shit.**

**Next chapter: THE DARK KNIGHT RISES.**


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